


Darkest Hour

by killabeez



Category: Highlander: The Raven, Highlander: The Series, The X-Files
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amnesia, Crossover, F/M, First Time, Het, Het and Slash, M/M, Plotty, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Slash, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-15
Updated: 2006-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:18:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 111,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several months after "Not to Be," Methos receives a late night call from Joe Dawson. Has someone finally gotten the best of Duncan MacLeod? Or is there more going on? Methos' faith and courage are tested to the limits as he fights to learn the truth about MacLeod's fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those extremely rare _Highlander: The Raven_ fans who pay attention to timelines, I've fiddled with this one a little. This story takes place after "The Manipulator," but before "The Ex-Files." Bert is still in Paris, however, and it's still April, which is a slight bending of canon. In X-Files canon, this takes place in the middle of season six, some time after "One Son."
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who helped beta read this over the years. Most especially, thanks to elynross and MacGeorge, who did most of the heavy lifting and encouraging. Dedicated to elyn and Deb, who make it worthwhile.

**  
_Georgetown University  
District of Columbia  
April 19th, 1999_   
**

The insistence of the phone in the small hours brought Methos no panic—only mildly murderous thoughts directed at whatever drunken fraternity boy had accidentally dialed his unlisted number—until he heard Joe Dawson's voice at the other end of the line.

Lying in the semi-darkness, staring at a crack in the plaster overhead, he let the words wash through him and didn't believe them. Not for a second. Some part of him maybe, the thinking part, but he was still able to function and to ask the right questions, so he knew that he didn't really believe it, not where it counted. He went on not-believing, went on talking and moving and doing the things that were necessary: hanging up the phone, getting up, covering his nakedness and finding keys, starting his sensible, oh-so-practical car. It was a valuable skill, and had gotten him far, that ability to function like a normal, rational person in moments of destruction. He was good at it. No one could match Methos for calm in a crisis.

No flights this time of night, and no way in hell he could have waited for morning, or borne the close quarters of a train. He would drive. Would go on running on automatic pilot, and wouldn't think of what awaited him at the other end of the dark road that stretched between Washington and New York.

He lost a space of time between the front walk and M Street. Only a minute or two, but it was enough to make him get it together, focus his formidable will on performing the functions needed to operate the car without killing anyone.

Only when the Volvo's headlights were counting reflectors on the Beltway did Methos at last let his mind escape into the relative safety of the not-so-distant past.

* * *

 **  
_Paris  
December 24th, 1998_   
**

It was a testament to the dismal state of their friendship that Methos didn't think first of MacLeod, when he felt the approaching buzz.

Time had been when he could have placed a bet on it being Mac, and been reasonably certain of winning. Time had been when the first thrum of Immortal presence would have been enough to touch off a predictable chain of split-second responses. First, the tiny spark of excitement. Anticipation at seeing the Highlander. Curiosity about what would bring MacLeod to him on that particular day: a problem to solve or a question to answer or simply the urge to hang out together for a while. Then the answering twinge of disgust at himself for being so eager to see him, no matter the reason. A barely acknowledged thread of apprehension, wondering if something might have happened. And only then, the wary caution he'd lived with for such a very long time.

Those days were past. It had been more than a month since the last time he'd seen MacLeod, the night after Liam O'Rourke had come for the Highlander's head. Since then Methos and MacLeod been living less than five miles apart, and Mac had made no further effort to contact him. It was too much to hope that after so much time, he'd had a change of heart.

Barring Mac, the list of Immortals Methos would have welcomed at this hour was vanishingly short, and he was off the couch within seconds, sword in hand, palming the lights off. Only the television cast light to see by; a fey Alec Guinness warned Albert Finney about the lonely fate of bitter old men as Methos glided silently toward the back entrance and the fire escape. This cold night, Christmas Eve in the City of Lights, he barely spared thought for the hope that the approaching buzz might be anything but a threat.

At least it had stopped snowing, but the wind was bitter, picking up speed as he slipped out onto the landing. Hunched against the cold, he waited, watching through the window from his place of concealment in the shadows.

He could hardly blame MacLeod for the distance, the awkwardness.That night on the barge, Mac had tried to hold out an olive branch, but Methos hadn't known how to answer in kind, not with Dawson and Amanda looking on, not when he was still cold and numb inside from watching Mac go to his knees in front of that pissant O'Rourke. He'd taken Mac's awkward attempt at peace-making badly, had felt it like a rejection, when in truth Mac had probably been trying to heal some of the damage between them, offering Methos only the simple acceptance he'd asked for. No, Mac was right. Far better they should stay apart, as they had for the past two years. Safer, in more ways than one. Never mind that Methos still played that night over and over in his mind, that he could hear MacLeod's voice sometimes as if it were in the room with him. _No one else dies because of me._ Never mind that he was still here, still in Paris in December, when all sane people were in the Bahamas or the Mediterranean or someplace equally warm.

Amanda had come to see him once, and he'd embarrassed himself with how glad he was for her company. Glad because he was alone too much these days and she was a breath of fresh air—but also for the news she'd brought of Mac, which he'd absorbed too eagerly. She'd told him she was leaving Paris soon. She'd tried to urge him to go see MacLeod, of course. Her gentle appeal, so irresistible—what could it hurt, to give it one more try? He'd resisted, though. In the end he'd made her understand that he'd gone as far as he could.

Across the darkened flat, a shadow fell on the pane of frosted glass above the front entrance; the guy was out in the hallway, probably about to kick in the door, the bastard. Methos was in no mood. Whoever this was, they were about to get a nasty surprise.

But instead of the door splintering inward, there came a familiar pounding—and Methos knew, even before he heard the voice, who it was.

"Adam? It's me, MacLeod."

Relief washed over him. Then in its wake came apprehension of a different sort. For a long moment, he didn't move. Unexpected, this late night visit, to say the least, and he wasn't ready for it. He didn't want to talk to MacLeod when he was this vulnerable. No matter how his heart was pounding, opening that door was almost certainly a bad idea.

But the edge of desperation in Mac's voice compelled him to climb down to the landing, go back inside.

"Adam? Please, I need to talk to you. It's urgent."

Unlocking the door and pulling it open, Methos sighed. "Kinda late, isn't it, Mac—?" The carefully calculated, casual greeting died on his lips when he got a good look at the man before him. "Good lord, what happened to you?"

MacLeod glanced down at his attire with a grimace and peered past him, into the darkened flat. "You alone?"

"A shock, I know." He stepped back from the doorway. MacLeod came inside, and Methos shut the door, locking it again. He laid his sword on the counter and immediately went and fetched the drink he'd been nursing earlier. MacLeod looked like he needed it more than Methos did. Mac was shivering violently, wearing the bloody, shredded remains of a white silk shirt and no coat. His cropped hair was wet, his lips blue with cold.

"Thanks," MacLeod said hoarsely, taking the liquor and downing it immediately.

"Help yourself to another if you want it." Methos hurried to get the duvet off his bed. Coming back with the comforter, he gave the other man a swift, critical once over, not liking what he saw. He'd obviously come some distance in the snow, and there was a great deal of blood, mostly dry now. From the looks of things, MacLeod had been shot by a powerful firearm, half a dozen times at close range. The wounds were gone, but the telltale bruising was still evident, and it looked like he'd scrubbed blood off his face and neck without benefit of a mirror. The prickle of gut-reaction fear Methos felt didn't surprise him; its intensity did. The visceral reminder that it didn't always come down to skill jolted him in a way he didn't want to think about. A katana made a poor defense against a bullet.

"Here, let's get you warmed up."

Shedding what was left of his shirt, MacLeod let Methos drape the down coverlet around his broad shoulders, then wrapped himself up in it, clutching it tight across his chest. For a few minutes he stood there, gritting his teeth against the uncontrollable shivers as his body started to acclimate. "Thanks," he said again, at last, meeting Methos's gaze this time and saying it with his eyes, too.

Not trusting himself, Methos nodded, and went to start a fire in the grate.

* * *

Methos located a pair of fleece drawstring pants, a thick sweatshirt and fleece socks that would do for MacLeod. Returning, he found his friend standing bundled up near the fireplace, his gaze far away, watching the flames.

"You need to get out of those wet things. Put these on, will you?"

"Not as if I'm gonna catch pneumonia."

"Humor me. You're dripping all over my floor." It got MacLeod moving; he unwrapped the comforter and pulled the grey sweatshirt on. When he unselfconsciously started to unfasten his trousers, Methos turned away. He moved toward the bar, deciding they could both probably use another.

"So, having an exciting evening, are we?" He poured a double for each of them.

MacLeod gave a short laugh, without much humor. "You're not gonna believe it."

"Try me." Methos capped the decanter and came back toward the fire. MacLeod was dressed, lowering himself to sit with his back against the couch, knees drawn up. He took the glass Methos offered; Methos moved to the chair opposite.

MacLeod took a sip of the amber liquid, cradling the glass in both hands. "Amanda called me earlier tonight and asked me if I'd take her to the airport. I'm on my way back to the terminal, passing the line at the security check, and next thing I know everything's gone to hell. Some lunatic tried to get past the checkpoint with a semi-automatic."

"Carrying drugs?"

"Probably. And sampling the merchandise, from the looks of things. The guy was definitely walking an edge. When the scanner went off he shot the security guard, grabbed a young girl in front of him, and started dragging her off down the concourse."

"And let me guess. You got in the middle."

MacLeod shot him a dark look. "You'd have done the same, if you'd seen his eyes. He would have killed her, and who knows how many others."

Methos's eyes slid downward momentarily, to MacLeod's chest. "Seems like there was at least one casualty."

A sudden darkness touched Mac's face, and he glanced away.

"More than one," Methos guessed, berating himself for not getting it sooner. "I'm sorry, Mac."

The other man grimaced slightly. "As you're so fond of saying, nobody's perfect. The guy listened to me for a while but he was too wired. Started to lose it. I got the hostage away, he plugged me five or six times, and airport security took him down. He was just a kid."

"Lucky he was the only one, thanks to you."

"Yeah." MacLeod sipped at his scotch. "But not so lucky for me. A news crew showed up, and got the whole thing on tape."

Methos groaned. "Oh, no."

MacLeod nodded, lips curving in a grim smile. "Oh, yes. They got my wallet, my I.D., everything. And to make things really fun, I revived right there in the middle of the concourse, after the ambulance crew had already pulled a sheet over me."

"Lovely. What happened?"

"Managed to make it into a service corridor in the confusion. Got out of the airport, but didn't dare risk a cab, or the metro, looking like that."

"You know," Methos quipped, "If there's one thing I hate, it's getting shot on Christmas."

"No kidding. And I really like Paris this time of year."

The reality of the situation began to sink in, and Methos felt a sudden heaviness in the region of his stomach. He swallowed, and set aside his drink, hiding the unexpected ache behind a pose of casual interest. "Where will you go?"

Mac shrugged. "East, for a while. Then the States, I imagine."

"Not Seacouver."

"I don't think so. New York maybe, in the spring. I've got some things to take care of I've put off long enough."

"Does Joe know what happened?"

Mac shook his head. "Your place was closer. I couldn't risk the barge. Methos, I need your help."

It wasn't as if they'd been spending all their free time together anyway, Methos told himself. Hadn't he been thinking it was for the best that they stay apart?

So why did he find himself suddenly fighting the urge to grab Mac and shake him and demand to know what the hell he'd thought he was doing, being so reckless?

Mac's gaze was deep, steady as it rested on his. Methos wanted to hold out his hand, but couldn't quite do it. His fingers pressed tight against his glass.

"Anything I can do, Mac. You know that."

"Yeah," MacLeod said quietly, smiling a little.

Methos did what was needed, going to the barge for necessities, helping his friend disappear as efficiently as their combined experience could manage. It didn't occur to him until much later how rare it was for MacLeod to ask him for anything; that the last time had been that awful night at the race track, when Richie Ryan had died and MacLeod had held out his sword, begging an end to his pain.

They parted in the carpark where MacLeod kept his second car. The sky was beginning to be light when Mac gave him a key to a deposit box, and a note for Joe, and surprised the hell out of him by putting his arms around him for the first time, an awkward embrace that was over before Methos could begin to return it.

"Thanks for everything." MacLeod seemed to hesitate, and when he spoke again his voice was husky, his eyes deep with emotion. "I've missed you, you know."

Methos tried not to swallow, but the impulse was irresistible. His heart was beating too hard. These hours with MacLeod had made him feel more alive than anything he'd done in the two years previous. He wanted to say, _I missed you too._ The words wouldn't come, and he could only nod—but Mac smiled as if he'd heard anyway. He squeezed Methos's shoulder briefly, and started to turn.

"Take care of yourself," Methos managed, his despair far more profound than the situation warranted.

For a moment, Mac turned back. "I will. You do the same." His smile was shadowed with answering regret he didn't voice. "Merry Christmas."

Paris was unrelentingly grey and miserable in the days that followed.

Boston in the spring, MacLeod had said, or New York. Methos's pride wouldn't let him fall so low as to go after him—not so soon. But by New Year's he'd made up his mind. Had returned a phone call, accepted an offer, and become Georgetown's newest history professor. Three days later he was on a flight from Paris to DC.

Apparently, it occurred to him with some irony, he'd been wrong when he'd believed he'd gone as far as he could for Duncan MacLeod.

What else was new?

* * *

 **  
_New Jersey Turnpike  
5:27 a.m._   
**

**__**He drove a steady 74 miles per hour, at the top edge of average speed on the toll highway. The desire to push the Volvo to its limit was tempered by the knowledge that being stopped for speeding right now might push him past his own limits. If forced to deal with an officer of the law, he really didn't think he could trust himself not to do something he would regret later—and complications like that he didn't need.

When he'd left Paris, Joe had asked him to stay in touch. His friendship with the mortal Watcher had been severely tested over the past few years, but seemed to be holding steady in spite of that; Methos had been touched by the genuine concern and had agreed. Joe, being Joe, had been kind enough not to bring up the coincident timing of his departure, but his tact had not concealed the fact that Methos was understood, too well.

The decision had felt dangerously like surrendering something important, like he'd finally acknowledged a fatal weakness, but even that hadn't kept him from going. It had hurt more than he'd expected, though—that unspoken, eloquent admission—even if he and Joe were the only ones who knew what it meant. When three weeks ago MacLeod had come home to the States and bought an apartment in New York, the relief Methos had felt at knowing Mac's whereabouts and having him close had been a more painful admission still.

Joe had given him MacLeod's number without waiting to be asked. Salt on the wound. Methos hadn't called, of course. Stubborn, prideful, stupid old thing—when would he learn that life didn't wait for you to be ready, to find the right moment? When would he ever learn that all pride ever got you was the cold and lonely company of your own silence?

For a moment, tension spiked, the urge to hit something very strong. Methos held it in, refusing to start feeling because if he started, he didn't know if he'd be able to stop. He shook his head slowly, hands gripping the steering wheel with deliberate control.

"Damn you, MacLeod, don't you do this to me," he warned under his breath. "Don't you dare do this to me."

He had always believed he would know, with Mac. Would sense it somehow. But of course that was nonsense, a nice, reassuring personal fiction with no basis whatsoever in fact or experience.

Methos's eyes stayed fixed upon the road, on the steadily appearing and disappearing reflectors that marked his journey through the darkness. But if his attention had strayed, if he had chanced to glance at his image in the rearview mirror, he might have been quite taken aback to recognize the dangerous, much older self reflected there.


	2. Chapter 2

He made the drive in under four hours, managing to beat the worst of the morning rush hour. As he crossed the last bridge into Long Island, a chill fog lay over the city, obscuring the morning sun behind a veil of vague and ominous threat. Out of its pale stillness, the great bastions of steel and concrete rose up like the indistinct faces of distant cliffs, banded by the equally grey and indistinct water below.

His cell phone remained silent on the passenger seat. Joe had called once, to say he was at the scene, and that the investigation was ongoing. Methos didn't really want to hear anything more over the phone anyway. The need to see with his own eyes, to know, was overpowering.

His perceptions had narrowed, fatigue and prolonged tension making the last miles to JFK seem like a dream journey, a muted, strangely surreal exodus that might have taken fifteen minutes or fifteen years. Something unnatural about cities this size. Never was he so aware of the plague of mankind as he was in this sprawling, inconceivable morass of urban humanity. He could feel the weight of their presence, millions of people crammed onto this tiny island that had once been a wilderness—a metropolis so immense it was impossible to hold the whole of it in one's mind. The entire Athenian and Spartan armies combined could have landed here and been swallowed up in a heartbeat.

Coming down the long expressway ramp into the airport proper, he found he was sweating, a cold, clammy sheen of dread. Joe's words, the first words he'd said when he'd called, ran in an endless playback loop he couldn't shut off. _Adam, something's happened._

 __He followed the directional signs for Long Term Parking to the overflow parking garage. Barricades blocked the entrance, but the _Garage Closed_ sign was the only sentry; he got out of the car on legs stiff from the long drive and pulled one of the barricades out of the way. He didn't spare time to put it back. Inside, he went down, and down again.

He saw the flashing lights even before he reached the bottom of the ramp, blue strobe reflecting off soot-streaked concrete and broken glass in the gloom below. More barricades, backed this time by several policemen and a cruiser parked at the foot of the ramp. Methos slowed, making an effort to be Adam Pierson for a little longer. He stopped the car and rolled down his window.

A heavyset, blunt-featured, pre-heart-attack uniformed cop stepped forward and laid his hand warningly on the edge of the window. "You're in a restricted area, sir."

"I'm looking for Joe Dawson. He's expecting me."

"You Bureau?"

Methos blinked. "Not in this lifetime."

"Then I'm going to have to ask you to leave this area immediately."

"Look, I've just driven four hours to get here. I need to—"

"Sir, you're going to have to turn your car around now. You are in violation of a direct order from a police officer."

The smells of gasoline, smoke and burnt ozone were very strong. Suddenly Methos couldn't stand to be inside the closed confines of the car one more moment. He fixed the man's small, bloodshot blue eyes with a stare that had been known to reduce stronger men to abject fear. "I think not, Officer—" his eyes dropped to the man's name tag "—Garvey. I think you are going to let me pass. Now." He met the man's eyes again, coldly speaking every threat he could think of with his own. Though he lacked Cassandra's talent, apparently the little skill he had was enough; his message was received, and the man let his hand fall and stepped back, looking a little dazed. Methos got out of the car and very deliberately moved past him, toward the barriers at the end of the ramp.

Where he could see too clearly the utter devastation that had been wrought.

That was when he started to believe. Not yet completely, not in the deepest places of his mind and heart, but belief enough to make him stop in his tracks because now a terrible pressure had risen inside him. This was ground zero, destruction on a scale that you only saw when a very old Immortal died. Or a very powerful one.

He knew the signs. Of course he knew the signs. Car windows blown out, lights shattered, heavy smoke damage from exploded gas tanks—very few cars on the third level had been spared. Only the firewalls had kept the blaze from spreading, and Methos could easily imagine it must have taken some time to put the inferno out, even with the sprinklers. Even now, six hours after it had happened, the place was lit up like the site of a plane crash. Police strobes, emergency vehicles and work lamps on portable generators pierced the gloom. Two engines were still on the scene, the firemen still in their protective gear. Forensics officers swarmed everywhere, both NYPD and feds, it looked like. He stood very still, taking in the familiar destruction while around him chaos went on in the ashes.

Trying to pinpoint the center of the conflagration was impossible. Scorch marks blackened the concrete everywhere he looked, and the smoke was still very bad, making it hard to see clearly even in the glare of the work lights. Methos felt his eyes stinging from it, the persistent smell of ozone burning his throat and lungs. It didn't mean anything, he told himself. The lights were blown out, so there had probably been some kind of electrical fire—

The thought made him break off for a moment, close his eyes, awareness narrowing to a pinpoint focused on the need to breathe, just that.

"Methos," Joe Dawson said carefully, very close to him, and Methos opened his eyes. "Come on, before you get us arrested." He drew Methos back from the barricades and Methos registered the two uniformed cops who had started in his direction, then stopped as Dawson reached him, drew him away from the line of demarcation. Joe must have flashed them some kind of I.D., he thought, and filed that away for later consideration, unable to spare thought for it now.

He didn't want to look at Joe. As soon as he did, as soon as he saw Joe knowing, and Joe saw him knowing, there'd be no way to take it back. It would be real. Adrenaline heat flushed hard through Methos's body, the pressure getting worse. He felt like he'd been strangled and, for some reason, wasn't healing. Gaze fixed on a sooty burn mark ten yards away, he forced himself to take even breaths, refusing to let the pressure find release.

"Where were you when this happened, Joe?"

Joe looked at him sharply, reacting to the implied accusation. "Well, as a matter of fact, since you ask, I've been laid up in the hospital the last three days."

It was enough to startle Methos out of the downward spiral of his thoughts. Looking up at last, he saw at once the Watcher's pallor, the exhaustion in his face, the way he leaned heavily on his cane. Obviously, coming here at all was pushing him to the limits of his endurance.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know. What happened?" Hard, so hard to make even that effort. But Joe didn't deserve any of this blind anger churning inside of him. He must have enough of his own.

"Gotta love this city—lived here less than a month and I got shot walking in on a burglary three days ago. Don't look at me like that, they got me in the shoulder." Joe shook his head grimly. "Doesn't matter, I shoulda been here. Alec Macklin was standing in. He's the one that called me."

Methos immediately filed the name, not recognizing it but storing it away for later. "So he saw...?"

"No, Mac lost him on the way down here. Alec thinks deliberately."

Methos went still. He couldn't help the stab of hope that went through him at this news. If there'd been no actual eyewitness—

Joe gripped his arm. "Methos, don't. Don't torture yourself. Macklin is an utterly reliable field man." The voice caught. "They found his sword _,_ Methos. There's no mistake. He's—"

Methos jerked out of Joe's grip and almost knocked the Watcher sprawling, so great was his desperation not to hear the word, not yet. Before he knew what was going to come out of his mouth he snarled, "You don't know that!"

Joe stared at him, shock, pity, grief and wariness all written in his careworn face, and Methos knew how irrational he sounded. And perhaps it was that, or finally seeing the truth in Joe's eyes, but in that moment he understood how much the shock had insulated him; the numb unbelief faltered, and something seized inside him. _Duncan._

Nameless pressure chilled to blunt pain, so quickly it took his breath.

He must have swayed, for Joe moved as if to touch him again, a hesitant offer of support, comfort, mutual solace. It was enough to jar Methos violently out of his slide into mindless grief, and he fell back on the old practicality of survival, shutting feeling down with a swift efficiency honed over millennia. Doing what was necessary. Like always.

"Methos—"

"No," he said flatly, denying his friend's need as well as his own. "It's not true until we know for sure. Not until we are absolutely, one hundred percent certain, no doubt in our minds. You understand me?" He held the grey eyes, merciless, until Joe slowly nodded. He studied Methos in return, face eloquent with worry and pain.

"And what then, my friend? What are you gonna do when we _are_ sure, tell me that?"

"Doesn't matter, Joe. Now is all that matters. And right now, he's out there somewhere and he needs our help."

"You know you're only making it harder."

"Maybe." Methos turned away. "If so, I'll have to live with that. I'll understand if you can't, Joseph."

He sensed the Watcher close behind him, felt his strength. "I'm with you," Joe said gently. "I hope you know what you're doing. For both our sakes."

A sudden, unexpected surge of grateful relief touched Methos through the deep freeze that had descended around his heart. He lifted his head. Able to do it now, he reached out and squeezed Joe's forearm; after a moment Joe locked wrists with him, the ancient gesture of comradeship to seal the promise. The awareness of MacLeod's presence was almost physical in that moment, and Methos had to close his eyes. "Thanks," he said hoarsely, at last.

The other man squeezed once, then let him go. "Okay, that's settled. Now what?"

Methos drew a deep breath. Looked at Joe . "Now... we go see the body."

* * *

The heavyset cop watched from a prudent distance as Methos and Joe got into the Volvo. He was still watching when Methos started the car and reversed up the garage ramp, and Joe looked at his companion curiously.

"What'd you do to him, threaten his mother?"

"Officer Garvey and I reached a mutual understanding, that's all."

"I'll just bet you did."

"Really, Joe, have a little faith." The sun had broken over the distant terminals when they emerged from the garage; Methos turned onto the access road, glancing at his passenger. "Feel like telling me how you got past the boys in blue?"

Joe gave a rather pale imitation of his usual lopsided grin. "The old fashioned way, my friend—grace, charm, and my good pal Ben Franklin."

Methos looked at him, saying nothing, and Joe had the grace to look embarrassed. "Yeah, okay, I called in a favor."

"The Watchers in the paperwork business now, are they?"

Irritation flashed over Joe's craggy face. "It ain't like it's news."

"No, just didn't think you played by those rules."

"Only when I have to," Joe shot back. "And don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing."

Methos let it pass. The treacherous undergrowth of deceit and conspiracy in the Watcher organization was a topic for another day. Rush hour was in full swing, and it had taken all of two minutes before they'd hit a backup on the expressway; traffic had slowed to a crawl, and they were already in the thick of it. Frustrated, Methos made himself take a deep breath. "Then how about letting me in on why the feds are involved? And maybe anything else you've left out?"

"You don't trust anyone, do you?"

"Not as a rule, no."

Joe looked out the window, fist clenched loosely on the edge of the door. "I'm not keeping anything from you. The feds are involved because for right now they're still treating this like a car bombing. There, you now know as much as I do. Anyway, what does it matter whose jurisdiction the case falls under? We've got enough to worry about."

"I don't know if it matters," Methos snapped, "that's why I'm asking. I need information. I need you to tell me everything you know."

"Look, buddy, we're on the same team here, all right? Cut me a little slack."

Joe's voice was strained, and Methos realized the mortal was hurting physically as well as emotionally. He probably shouldn't have been out of bed, and was obviously in pain. Methos gentled his tone with effort. "You all right?"

He felt the other man's eyes on him. Finally Joe answered quietly, "No, frankly. I'm not all right. Neither are you, between you and me. But that doesn't matter either, does it?"

Glancing over, Methos met his gaze briefly, then turned his attention back to the car in front of him. "No, I guess it doesn't." Brake lights flashed ahead, forcing them almost to a standstill. "Look, humor me. Tell me again what happened, from the beginning. Not as if we're going anywhere in a hurry."

Joe sighed. "Like I said, Macklin called me at the hospital around twelve-fifteen, and told me he'd tailed Mac from his place down to the BQE. Mac was trying to shake him, but Alec kept him in sight and stayed with him all the way to the airport. He got one last glimpse of him heading north towards Terminal One before Mac lost him for good. That would have been around eleven-thirty." Joe shifted in the passenger seat, trying to adjust the seat belt to a more comfortable spot on his shoulder. "Alec figured Mac was gettin' on a plane, so he went ahead to the departure terminal and pulled over to call the airlines, to see what flights were going out that time of night. That's when he heard the explosion—felt it, he said. A few minutes later, he saw the flashing lights, and followed them toward the garage. When he saw Mac's car, he called me. I got down here by about one-thirty, but it took them a good three hours or more to get the fire put out. I called you on the cell around six, and that was right before they found his sword."

The thought of Duncan's katana being locked up in some evidence room touched on that buried core of helpless rage in a way that Methos knew he couldn't afford. He didn't want to think about what it meant. "I want to see it," he said.

Joe closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head on the back of his seat. "What, the sword? It's out of our hands now."

Methos didn't bother to contradict him. But he would have that sword. For Mac, if they got him back. For himself, if—well, just if. A horn blared behind them, repeatedly, the sound working at his frayed nerves.

"I want to talk to Macklin," he said finally.

Joe sat up straighter. "No, huh uh, forget it buddy. Bad idea."

Methos shot him dark look. "What's the matter, Joe, your Watcher oath getting in the way again?"

Frustrated, Joe turned on him. "Dammit, don't you throw that in my face after all this time! You know damn well where my loyalties are—it's you I'm worried about, can't you see that? Do you have any idea how hard it's been for me to keep them from putting a Watcher on you?"

Methos's voice rose, too. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "Think I care? Think I give a damn about that now?"

A ringing silence filled the car.

At last, Joe said, "This wasn't your fault, you know."

Methos pressed his lips together, drawing breath in deep, carefully controlled inhalations. _But I should have been there. Should have been there, should have called him, should have told him_ —

He made himself look at the man beside him. "Not yours either, Joseph."

"Yeah. I know. So let's stop beating each other up, okay?"

At last, Methos relaxed the death grip he had on the wheel, feeling something inside him unclench a little. "When did you get so smart, anyway?"

Joe found a smile for him; it was tight, and not terribly convincing. "Hey, I'm just a guy, didn't you know?"

"Smartass."

"Takes one to know one." Joe rubbed his face tiredly. "Listen, you be all right to drive if I crash out for a while? I didn't exactly get any sleep last night, and the pain meds are wiping me out."

"Good idea. Why don't you put the seat back?"

In spite of the morning glare and the traffic, Joe was out in a matter of minutes. The expressway began moving again, sluggishly, and after a minute Methos reached out, rested a hand on the mortal's uninjured shoulder. He didn't know if Joe was aware of the contact, but he kept it there for some time.


	3. Chapter 3

**  
_City morgue  
8:42 a.m._   
**

**__**In the cramped, dingy waiting area, Joe Dawson drew a deep breath, let it out. He glanced at his companion. "You sure you want to do this?" Methos looked at him sharply. "I mean, there's no reason for both of us—"

Something flickered in the controlled gaze, too fleeting to interpret. "You trying to protect me, Joe? You think I haven't seen worse?" His tone was mild, almost indulgent.

Joe didn't challenge the lie, just held his gaze. Asking. Offering. Let me do this. Let me spare you this.

Methos only shook his head slightly, his face drawing into impassive lines, his eyes utterly opaque. Before Joe could say anything further, the door opened and a thirtyish, strong-featured woman with very short dark hair came out. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Joe Dawson; this is Adam Pierson. We called about the John Doe you brought in from Kennedy?"

A certain wariness shadowed her grey eyes, and she gave them both a frank, efficient once-over that seemed to see a great deal.

"Thank you for coming in, gentlemen. I'm Doctor Hunter, the medical examiner. Perhaps we should talk in my office?"

She led the way down a long, brightly lit corridor, the sound of their combined footsteps echoing hollowly on the ancient linoleum. "This is an... extraordinary case to say the least," she said carefully, glancing at them as they walked. "I'm not sure how much the officers told you, or how well you knew the deceased...but you need to be prepared for the worst."

Feeling the coldness of that place in his bones, all too aware of Methos beside him and that wide door at the end of the hall, Joe managed a nod. He knew how to do this. A job to be done, that's all. Not the first time he'd had to look death in the eye—not even the worst. "We understand." Too well.

 _Don't think about it. Don't think about Mac, not now. No matter what's in that room, it's not MacLeod, not in any way that matters._

She continued, "Ordinarily, of course, we could use dental records to confirm the identity of the victim; but in this case, there's no evidence that our John Doe has ever had any dental work done. Is that consistent with your friend's history, do you know?"

Of course, it would be. "As far as I know."

"What about blood type? Medical records?"

The Watcher had to shake his head. "I'm sorry, I don't think you're gonna be able to find anything like that. He's... he was one of those guys who's never been sick a day in his life." The half-truth tasted like ashes.

The M.E. obviously wasn't pleased. "In circumstances like these, making a positive ID is going to be difficult, if not impossible." She ushered them into a small, neat office near the end of the hallway and closed the door; turning to face them, she hitched one hip on her desk. Her face was troubled as she searched for words. "What I'm trying to say, gentlemen, is that as things stand, I don't see much point in a viewing. As much as I appreciate you coming down, I don't think it's a good idea."

At a loss, Joe glanced briefly at Methos. In full Adam Pierson mode, the old man tried a personal appeal. "This man was our friend, Doctor. We'd really like to know, one way or the other."

She regarded him thoughtfully, and Joe could almost see her mind working, trying to decide if they were really what they seemed. This case had to be one of the strangest she'd seen in her career. Then again, this was New York.

And Methos did "innocuous" extremely well.

"I'll tell you what," she said finally. "He had a few personal effects on him that made it through the fire more or less intact. Would it help to take a look?"

"We'd appreciate it," Joe said quickly.

She nodded and went around the desk, pulling a plastic case from a drawer. "I have to ask you not to touch anything." She placed the box on the desk facing them, and opened it.

There were only three items in the box: a fragment of blackened, twisted metal worked with some kind of raised pattern, a plastic bag containing the charred remains of what might have once been a man's billfold, and a lumpish mass of metal and melted plastic—a set of keys.

"The billfold was found some feet from the body," she said quietly. "This piece... I'm guessing it's a belt buckle."

Joe looked at the three items for what felt like a long time, experiencing an odd detachment, as if his body stood in that small, chill room with those other people but his mind was separate from that, far away in this other place or plane of existence. For a moment, the sensation was so real that he expected any moment to wake up, to find himself at home, or in bed in the hospital.

Then beside him, Methos said, "Those are his keys."

Snick. Back in his body, just like that. Thinking of Mac and the cars he drove, one black, suitably macho set of wheels after another, the burnt husk of the vintage Jaguar still smoking in the parking garage.

He looked at the man beside him, mouth dry as dust. "You sure?"

"I'm sure. Look at the fob."

Joe did. And recognized the shape—the silver oval flaked now with black carbon, the knot work almost fused together, but unmistakable.

 _Jesus,_ he thought, didn't say, the heaviness back in his chest though he'd thought he'd done with that back at the garage. He drew a breath, straightening up with effort. _Can't look at Methos, I'm no good to him if I lose it._

 _Gotta get him out of here._

 __"Thank you, Doctor Hunter." Joe's voice was as hoarse as if he'd been shouting. He got a card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. "You'll call us if... if you need us for anything else?"

"I will. Thanks for coming down." The M.E. put the plastic case away, moving to open the door for them. Joe started to follow Methos out; just then, Hunter's phone rang.

"We'll find our own way out," Methos said helpfully, and she nodded distractedly, shutting the door behind them.

No sooner had she done so than Methos switched direction and strode deliberately toward the door at the end of the hallway.

"What the hell are you doin'?" Joe whispered fiercely.

But the other man ignored him, and pushed the door open.

* * *

The antiseptic smell was stronger in here, but it couldn't quite cover the dank, underlying suggestion of limestone, cold metal, and decay. Methos tried to shut out the knowledge of those smells, the associated memories, ghosting images of catacombs, lichen-encrusted tombs, worse places. _Must've gotten Caspian in for the decor,_ he thought darkly, struggling to find a scrap of the black humor that had so often saved his sanity. He could do this. He needed a minute, that was all. Just a minute—

His eyes fell on the covered gurney in the middle of the room, and he stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. Moving closer, he saw a clipboard on the wheeled cart beside the gurney. He scanned it swiftly, imprinting the words without really processing them; it was only a preliminary report, but it told him more than enough, more than he wanted to know. The stench of cooked flesh was overpowering. Familiar. His stomach threatened to rebel; distantly he heard the door swing open again, felt the draft from the corridor and recognized Joe's heavy, irregular tread.

"Come on, man, let's get the hell out of here before we get arrested."

"Just a minute, Joe."

"What do you think you're gonna prove? You heard the lady."

"Circumstantial evidence."

"What?"

"That's all we've seen so far. Doesn't it all seem a little too neat to you?" At Joe's blank frown, he made an impatient gesture. "His sword, his keys, his car, all neatly arranged to lead to one obvious conclusion?" At that, he saw a spark of understanding in the other man's eyes. "I'm not leaving here until I look for myself. Now get out of here, Joe. You don't need to do this."

Joe moved close, and Methos flinched at the hand that came to rest on his shoulder, but it didn't fall away, just squeezed gently. "Neither do you, buddy. Come on, you're gonna make yourself crazy."

Methos couldn't suppress his reaction, the surge of denial that rose in him. "I am not going to write him off because I saw a key chain!"

"Nobody's asking you to! All I'm saying is this ain't gonna prove anything!"

Methos made himself draw a deep breath. "Joe, I need to do this, all right? You don't. I'll only be a minute—you go ahead and I'll catch up."

Joe sighed, letting him go. "Uh uh. If we're gonna do this, we're doin' it together." He stepped closer to the covered form on the gurney, looking as pale as linen, the fluorescents aging him considerably, obvious strain showing in his face. Still, he didn't hesitate. Time played a trick on Methos, and suddenly he was remembering the night MacLeod had knelt before an old enemy to buy a mortal's life, the look on Joe's face in the moment before Methos had managed to get that first shot off.

"Okay," he said at last, moving to stand opposite. "You pull the sheet back, I do the looking, then we get the hell out of here. Right?" Joe nodded, and Methos looked down. "Do it, then."

* * *

In the car, eyes closed against the morning glare, Joe Dawson rolled down his window and spent the better part of a minute doing nothing more than breathing what passed for fresh air in Manhattan. He felt exhausted, bruised in body and in soul, and he really didn't know how he was going cope with what the rest of this day would demand of him. He hurt. His best friend, maybe the best man he'd ever known, was gone—and he was afraid that the man sitting beside him might be perilously close to some kind of self-destructive implosion. For a moment he felt the unfairness of it, that he, with his measly half-century of dealing with life and loss, should have to be the strong one when all he really wanted to do was go home, crawl into bed, and become unconscious for about forty-eight hours.

At last, reluctantly, he turned his head to look.

"Methos?"

The other man's expression was distant, lost in some place beyond Joe's experience or comprehension. He hadn't spoken, and that was an answer in itself, Joe supposed, the thought like cold lead in the pit of his stomach. He really hadn't had much doubt left, but seeing that look in the other man's face made him feel like he'd been gutshot.

"Talk to me, my friend."

Methos stirred, coming back from wherever he'd gone with a visible effort. His eyes were unusually pale in the sunlight, focusing on Joe as if only then remembering his existence. "You were right," he said finally. "It doesn't prove anything."

Joe blinked. "You don't think...?"

Methos looked out the window, hands resting lightly on the wheel. "No way to be sure."

Dismayed, Joe fought down a wave of unease. "Look—I think maybe we need to have a little reality check here. I mean, what are the chances that's not MacLeod in there? Let's be rational about this." Methos had gone very still. Not looking at him. Listening. Joe didn't want to have to say these things, but Methos needed to hear them. "They've got his sword, Methos. His car. What are the chances?"

The other man's eyes were closed now, his only visible motion that of his careful, steady breathing.

Joe made his voice as gentle as he could, unshed tears making his throat ache fiercely. "If that's not Mac in there, then where is he? Tell me that."

Methos opened his eyes, the long lashes veiling their expression. When he spoke, his voice was rough and dry as sand. "You and I both know there are evil men in the world, Joe. Someone might have taken him. Someone who wants us to believe he's dead."

Joe was getting angry now. Dammit, he couldn't afford to get dragged into Methos's delusions! "Yeah, maybe. But it's a hell of a lot more likely that this is just what it looks like. You and I both know that, too."

Methos looked at him then, anger of his own sparking deep in hazel eyes—and beneath that, the plea, the fundamental need to hold on to some hope, not to believe. "Yes, I know that. Of course I know. But if I'm wrong, it won't make a fucking bit of difference to him, will it? And if I'm right—if by some sliver of chance I'm right—then we're all he's got." The angular face had set in fierce, resolute lines. "I don't need your pity, Dawson, and I don't need your sympathy. I need your help. This is the last time we are going to have this discussion; now are you in, or out?"

They stared at each other for a long, silent few seconds, Joe weighing his own endurance against the bonds of friendship, the history he'd shared with MacLeod and this man. Methos was driven, yes, and compelled by guilt, and grief, and love—but he was also, Joe's gut told him, unquestionably sane. At least for now.

And what if he was right? What if, by some impossible chance, he was?

"Let's go back to my place," he said at last, rubbing absently at one aching thigh. "I've gotta get out of these things for a while, and you look like you could use some coffee, whaddya say?"

After a long moment, the stark lines of Methos's face relaxed into something slightly less alien, bearing slightly more resemblance to the man Joe Dawson had called friend.

"Coffee wouldn't be my first choice, but it's a start."

Joe managed a shadow of a smile. "Whatever. Just drive."

Methos started to put the key in the ignition, then stilled, as if caught by a thought.

"What?"

"Amanda," Methos said. "She would want to know."

"We could use another brain to pick," Joe suggested. "Not to mention her particular expertise."

Methos nodded. "My thoughts exactly. Isn't she playing house with an ex-cop these days?"

"Guy's name is Wolfe. He's a pain in the ass, but he was a good cop."

"Think he'd be of use, or get in the way?"

"Never know, but I think he'd do just about anything for Amanda."

"Explains what she sees in him." Methos started the car. "So, where we going?"

"East 62nd Street. And no comments about my housekeeping, I ain't been home in three days."


	4. Chapter 4

In Joe Dawson's tiny kitchen, hot water, grounds from a can, and a noisy appliance that had seen better days all worked together toward the American approximation of a decent pot of coffee, while a man much older than the modern miracle of electricity watched the dark liquid pool, his thoughts three years in the past, on the other side of an ocean.

* * *

"Hello, Adam," said the warm baritone, colored with the faintest touch of little-boy, I-know-a-secret glee that always accompanied MacLeod's use of that name. Methos sighed inwardly. What a dreadful politician he would make. Couldn't lie with a straight face if his life depended on it.

Having no choice now but to look up, Methos did.

"Hello, MacLeod." What did the man want now? Couldn't he fight his own battles and leave Methos out of it for once? He looked MacLeod over, reading no sign of imminent crisis in the relaxed posture. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He meant it to come out light, with a dram of sarcasm for flavor, but didn't quite make it. He'd have to work on that.

"Thought maybe you could use a break. Thought we could have coffee together, maybe walk down to the gardens or something."

Methos held himself still. Everything was making him angry today for some reason. Not Mac's fault—he meant well. "I wish I could," he said carefully, turning back to the stack of books he'd been cataloguing. "But I've got a lot to deal with here. A lot of catching up to do—not to mention the lake in the cellar. Maybe another day."

"Even for an hour? You told me you already salvaged what you could down there, and the rest will wait," MacLeod said reasonably. "It's a beautiful day out. First sunny day we've had in weeks. Come on, what do you say?"

 _I don't care,_ Methos thought, didn't say. _Don't you get it? The woman I love is dead and I really do not give a shit if it's a beautiful day out or fifty below. Now go away and leave me the fuck alone._

 __Methos let out the breath he'd been holding. Reaching for the numb calm he'd managed to find these last few days in the cool, dark haven of the book shop, he kept the quicksilver fury inside and spoke softly. "Look, Mac. I appreciate what you're trying to do. I really do. But not today. All right?" At last he was able to meet the dark eyes that saw too much, that held too much understanding. He was tired of resisting their pull, the seductive promise of kinship. The temptation drew him like soft music out of hearing's reach, but it was too fragile to trust.

"No, you're right." MacLeod colored faintly and dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pushed. I just... I wanted to make it up to you, for helping me with Warren, that's all. We'll do it another day."

Methos watched him turn, watched him tuck his hands in the pockets of his coat as he took three easy strides toward the door. The little apologetic smile MacLeod gave him in parting seemed to leave an imprint on his psyche like a photographic afterimage. His concern was unexpected and unsought—and yet it eased something in him, something he hadn't recognized as need under the greater pain of Alexa's loss. The understanding was real. The kinship, real. All he had to do was reach out for it.

"Mac, wait," he said before the other man reached the door. MacLeod stopped, and turned. The smile was gone but the concern was still there, and on another day Methos might have smiled himself—because nothing amused him so much as being surprised by life, by his own contrariness.

Because even now, the woman he loved a week in the grave, he'd be damned if he could say no to the man.

* * *

"Did you hear me?"

The coffee was done, steaming in its carafe. Joe had reappeared from the bedroom and crossed to the couch, and Methos hadn't registered a word he'd said.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said, I'm gonna make the call before it gets too late over there, and she's out for the evening. Want to bring me the phone?"

Methos tucked his mobile under his arm and poured coffee for each of them. For burglars, Joe's unwelcome guests had been unusually civilized—or else they hadn't had much time to trash the place before Joe had come home and surprised them in the act.

"Nice they left the coffee maker," he commented, handing the phone over with the steaming mug.

"Yeah, real considerate. Have to remember to send a thank-you note."

Joe waved at the armchair, but Methos felt too edgy, full of all-nighter adrenaline and thoughts that refused to stay focused. He wanted to pace, but the living room was too cramped to do it properly. The smell of the coffee, when he raised it to his lips, made his stomach turn over. He put it down without tasting it. Joe was dialing, soft beeps in the too-quiet room, a long string of numbers from the book spread open on his lap.

"Joe—" He didn't know what to say. Break it to her gently? The thought was ludicrous.

But Joe hit the last number, and met his eyes. "I know. Don't worry, okay? We're all gonna get through this. One step at a time."

 _Thank God for Joe,_ Methos thought. But it was the echo of Mac's voice saying the words—a dissociated memory of some other crisis averted long ago—that he heard in his head.

* * *

 **  
_Paris  
6:15 p.m._   
**

**__**Nick balanced the case of liquor on a bar stool and grabbed the phone on the tenth ring. "Wolfe," he said shortly, scanning the club for Amanda.

"Nick. It's Joe Dawson."

Great. Definitely not one of his favorite people. He grinned, knowing the feeling was mutual. "Well, if it isn't the professional voyeur. Or... what was it Amanda called you? A mosquito?"

There was a silence on the other end of the phone, and Dawson's answer was a growl, definitely not amused. "Very funny, Wolfe, but I'm really not in the mood. Is she there? I need to speak with her. "

"I don't know, I just walked in the door. Hang on a minute."

Nick made no effort to hurry. Dawson and his watcher friends gave him the creeps—Amanda's analogy was right on target.

The door to her flat was ajar, and he smiled as the sound of the radio reached him, her voice lilting along with it from the direction of the bathroom. The club looked to be a success, and its owner believed in spreading her good moods around.

"Amanda?"

"In here, darling!"

Visions of Amanda and bubble baths immediately presented themselves, and Nick moved with more alacrity; just then, she appeared from the bathroom in a white terry cloth robe and a cloud of fragrant steam, her hair sticking up in wet spikes. As a consolation prize, he'd take it.

"There's a phone call for you. On the club line." He didn't tell her who, hoping he'd get to listen in.

The smile she gave him was half welcome, half thanks, and all flirt. "Make yourself comfortable. Something to drink?" She breezed past, snagging the phone from the kitchen and two glasses at the bar. Nick watched her maneuver the headset, glasses, ice tongs and the makings for gin and tonic with impressive dexterity. "Hello?"

She stilled when she heard the voice on the other end, setting the bottle down and shooting Nick a narrow-eyed look. "Why, Joe. Nick didn't tell me it was you," she said too brightly. "What's the occasion?" There was a little pause. And then all the color went out of her face, and she was gripping the phone very hard. She sat down on the arm of the couch; instinctively, Nick moved closer. "Just tell me," she said evenly.

A moment later, she closed her eyes, cupping both hands around the receiver. Another pause, and then her eyes flew open again. "What do you mean, circumstantial?" Impatiently, she got up and started to pace. "I thought you were supposed to be his Watcher!Is he, or isn't he?" Expressions chased over her face too fast to read, all of them grim. "Well, let me talk to him."

She met Nick's worried look for an instant, but her eyes barely registered his presence. "Methos?"

Was that a name? Saying it seemed to snap the thread of her composure; the hard lines of her face dissolved, and she turned away from Nick, still cradling the phone. Her voice had grown small, and he could hear her trying to keep it together. "Methos—talk to me, okay? Because I really just need to hear the truth. I mean it."

Nick realized, with a kind of sinking dread, that he really did not want to know what kind of news could make Amanda sound like that. She was invincible. Nothing fazed her. He suddenly wanted to grab the phone out of her hand and tell Joe Dawson and his friend to go take a flying leap.

Then she straightened and started pacing again, slowly now as she listened, a frown of concentration drawing a sharp line between her brows. "But who would do something like that...?" The line deepened. " ...All right. All right." Drawing a deep breath, she ran her hand back through her cropped hair, and Nick saw that her lips were pressed into a determined line. He knew that look. It meant someone was going to have hell to pay. "It's probably too late to make it out tonight, but I'll be there as soon as I can."

She put the phone down slowly, as if it were heavy and might slip out of her grasp if she weren't careful. Her gaze was unfocused.

"You okay?" He made a hesitant gesture toward touching her. Unexpectedly, she reached back, taking his hand tightly in hers; when she did, he could feel her shaking, and without thinking he drew her forward, into his arms.

But she only allowed it for a minute before pulling away, her fingertips brushing his cheek in gentle apology. "I can't, Nick. I just can't right now, okay? If I let you do that right now, I won't be any good to them."

"Amanda—" He searched for words that would penetrate the walls she put up as easily as breathing, almost desperate with the need to get through to her. He loved her—God knew he loved her. He'd known it for some time now, and he lived with it every day, what it meant, what it cost him to keep silent when he wanted most to speak, to hang back when he wanted most to put himself between her and danger. But he'd be damned if he'd do it this time. "It's okay to lean on me," he said roughly, holding out his arms, willing her not to back away. "You don't always have to be the strong one. Whatever it is, let me help." For an instant, he thought she would let him, and he impulsively added, "Wherever you're going, I'll go with you."

Her dark eyes shone, but she shook her head and backed up another step. "No." Her chin firmed, and she drew a breath. "No, baby, I'm sorry—not this time."

 _Baby._ Was that how she thought of him? "Not _this_ time? Then when?" he grated, frustration filling him. "What am I to you? What are we doing here, Amanda, if I can't even be there for you when you need help?"

"Nick, don't!" she cried, turning away, her hands jabbing the air in frustration of her own. "You don't understand!" Angry now, she strode to the bar and downed the drink she'd mixed in two long swallows, one arm hugged around her middle as if she needed to consciously hold herself together. When the glass was empty, she drew a deep breath and put it down deliberately. She turned to face him, icy calm replacing the momentary flash of temper. "Look, I can't do this right now. I have to go." She started for the bedroom, a dismissal he couldn't fail to read. "We'll talk about this later, okay?"

It was a warning, and he knew it. But he'd been choking this down too long; he was angry, too, and scared, certain that she was walking into grave danger with a man he didn't trust to watch her back. He went after her, dogging her steps down the hallway. "No, it's not okay. In fact it's getting old, Amanda. I'm tired of you shutting me out all the time. I'm tired of being protected. When are you ever gonna tell me anything?"

"It doesn't have anything to do with you!"

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" He followed her into the bedroom without missing a step, and managed to keep his cool even when she dropped her robe and pushed past him, dressed in nothing but the lovely skin she'd been born with.

Pulling gossamer underthings out of a drawer, pulling them on without so much as a glance in his direction, Amanda snapped, "I'm Immortal, Nick. You're not. End of story. How many times are we going to have this conversation?"

"As many times as it takes before you treat me like something besides a helpless kid! I was a cop, remember? I can take care of myself!"

"No! You can't!" Amanda seized a black knit dress out of the bureau, yanked it over her head, and slammed the drawer shut. "If Duncan couldn't, you can't. I can't be worrying about you both. And I really don't need this from you right now!"

Her little-girl-betrayed look made him feel immediately like he'd kicked a kitten, shaming him for his childish temper. "Amanda..." And then belatedly, the name registered—a name he'd never heard before. He frowned. "Who's Duncan?"

She held his gaze for only a moment, but it was long enough for him to see the pain, the fear. And the love, for a man she'd never mentioned.

She went to the closet and disappeared inside without answering; a moment later she reappeared with a carry-on bag and an armful of clothing. Dropping the lot onto the duvet, she began methodically folding and packing. Suddenly tired, Nick sank down to sit on the bed.

"Talk to me," he urged, searching her face. "Who's Duncan?"

For a minute she kept packing, not answering. Then, at last, she stilled, looking at her hands where they rested on the black handles of the suitcase.

"He's a friend," she said flatly, fighting tears, still not looking at him. "My best friend. He's Immortal, and he's—missing." Her eyes rose to Wolfe's, pleading for him to understand. "I have to help, Nick, and I can't do that if I'm worrying about you. I need you to stay here, stay safe for me. Okay?" His expression must have betrayed his unhappiness, because she made a sound of sympathy and cupped his face in her hand, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "I know," she said gently, kissing him on the forehead. "I don't make it easy, do I?"

"No," he agreed huskily, turning his face into her touch in spite of himself. "Never easy with you, Amanda." He looked up at her, swallowing against the ache. "It's always going to be like this, isn't it?"

"Maybe," she said lightly, but her gaze was deep, fathomless black. "Think you can stand it?"

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I don't like being on the outside looking in."

"Oh, Nick." She smiled a little, the centuries shadowing her eyes. "We all are, don't you know that?" And for a moment she melted against him, leaning close where she stood, bowing her face against his shoulder as if drawing strength from him, letting him cup his hand against the back of her head, the soft down of her hair.

"Can I at least take you to the airport?" he asked, when he felt himself in danger of giving in to the weight of her, pulling her down into his arms.

"No," she said. "I have some things I have to do first. But I'll call." He felt the barest brush of her lips against his neck. "I promise."

* * *

Joe watched Methos cut the connection. Something had eased in the set of the angular face.

"She's coming?"

"She's coming," Methos nodded, handing Joe the mobile phone and moving away, pacing again with that same restless energy, thwarted by the modest dimensions of the room.

Joe admitted to himself that he was a bit relieved to know Amanda was en route. She had always been good at maintaining perspective in a crisis, and he was surprised to realize how much faith he had in her calming influence. "You're wearing me out just watching you."

Methos made himself sit in the armchair with a visible effort. "We need a plan of action."

"Are we assuming that wasn't Mac we saw downtown this morning?"

Methos met his eyes. "Absolutely."

Joe nodded. "Then that's where we start. Account for that body." He began making notes in his book. "Start with the database and run a comparison check against incoming reports for the last couple days—we can find out if anyone's missing in action. At the same time, we can find out who's been seen in the area, who's hunting." He frowned, caught by some elusive ghost of mental connection that skittered at the edge of awareness.

"What?"

"I just remembered something." Maybe no connection at all, maybe a blind alley. It had seemed so insignificant before, and in the craziness of being shot, and the hospital, and the events of this awful morning, he'd forgotten it. He glanced at Methos, uncertain if he should even mention it. "Maybe nothing, but..."

"Don't keep me in suspense," Methos said tightly.

"Mac said something a few days ago... something I didn't get at the time. Something about, was I getting bored with my work. I thought he was just ribbing me. But—" Joe caught his breath, the realization making the hair stand up on his arms. Was he projecting? Wishful thinking? Memory was such a tricky thing. "Methos, I think he was being followed."

The other man started. He leaned forward, his searching gaze a keenly honed blade. "Are you sure?"

"No. No, I'm not sure of anything. But he thought I had assigned him another Watcher." Remembering now, Joe felt sick. "Damn—" He met Methos's gaze. "I told him he was getting paranoid in his old age."

"Maybe he was," Methos said, plainly torn between caution and hope.

"Maybe," Joe agreed.

Their eyes held.

"Not Mac," Joe said at last. "Dammit, why didn't I listen!"

"You couldn't have known, Joe." Methos got up, unable to sit still any longer. He stood at the front window, arms folded tightly against his body, hands gripping elbows, a coil of energy barely contained. "When was that, exactly?"

"Musta been around ten a.m. Thursday."

Methos went still. "The same day someone broke into your apartment?"

"Yeah."

Slowly, Methos turned to look at him. Hazel eyes were alight now, with a feral gleam. "A little coincidental, don't you think?"

Joe stared. And swore, his fist clenching against his thigh. "Jesus, when did I get to be so stupid?"

"What did they take?"

"Nothing. The usual. My TV, such as it was. Some cash from the dresser. There wasn't much."

"Your files?"

"Not here. Everything's on the laptop, encrypted six ways to Sunday. I keep the backups in a safe deposit box. Learned that lesson the hard way with Kalas."

Possibilities flickered in the other man's eyes. "Mac called you? Or was this conversation in person?"

"No, he called me."

Methos was already moving across the room, going straight to the phone on the kitchen counter. He picked up the handset and started taking it apart. "From now on, if we have to use the phone, we stick to secure lines only."

Joe levered himself up and followed, watching the supple fingers operate on his phone with surgical delicacy. After several minutes, he prompted, "Well?"

Methos shook his head. "It's clean." Disappointment laced his tone. He rested his hands on the counter for a moment, studying the mess he'd made. Doubt played over the expressive face. They'd made several leaps in logic...were they grasping at straws? Even if they were right about the phone tap, that was no guarantee that MacLeod was still alive.

"Doesn't mean anything. Like you said, the tap could've been on Mac's end."

Methos looked up. "Or his flat could've been bugged."

Chilled, Joe looked around the apartment. "I'd better get one of my people out here to sweep the place. Even if it was at Mac's end—"

"—better safe than sorry." Hazel eyes flashed Joe a sidelong, ironic look. "My philosophy of life."

"It doesn't show," Joe assured him.

"Heaven save me from bad liars," said Methos, beginning to reassemble the phone.

Joe watched him for a moment, wanting to say something more, not knowing what he could say that the other man would hear. Did Methos honestly think anyone really bought that line? Or was it just habit? Joe himself hadn't believed it for years—not since he'd seen the way the man looked at a shy cocktail waitress named Alexa Bond.

Maybe Methos thought if he said it enough, he'd make it true, make himself stop feeling so much, caring so much.

 _I sure hope you're out there, MacLeod._

 __"If we're right," he said aloud, "and they came after me because of that phone call, then we can probably write off the Watchers, or anybody else who already knew about us."

Methos glanced up from his work, dubious. "That's a big if."

"Like you said, it's a hell of a coincidence to swallow otherwise. I don't know about you, but if it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, I tend to think it ain't a coincidence."

Methos made a noncommittal sound, but his expression conceded the point.

"Cops are gonna be crawling all over Mac's place. If there's anything there to find, they're gonna get to it before we do."

"I know," Methos said grimly. "We'll worry about that if we have to. For right now, let's start going through the database. We've got to start somewhere, and that's as good a place as any."

They got to work.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Kennedy International Airport  
Tuesday, 8:57 a.m._ **

Methos curled his hands around the hot paper cup, giving silent thanks for the bitter, fragrant coffee within. Manna, this stuff—and very necessary at the moment. The scalding liquid burned his tongue and throat on the way down, but he could already feel the caffeine warming his blood, a slow flush of heat that might, for a little while, succeed in making him feel slightly closer to human. Outside, the sun obnoxiously shone for all it was worth, limning cheery white clouds in a blue spring sky.

And memory waited here, too, wouldn't you know it.

Only that day it had been raining, as if the clouds were shedding tears for all of them, most of all for a boy who should have lived forever...

* * *

 **_Orly Airport  
May 20th, 1997_ **

When his eyes found the familiar shape—broad shoulders, ponytail, dark longcoat—Methos almost didn't believe it. Sixteen hours he'd been searching, certain all the time that the object of his search was long gone, unreachable, maybe even dead already. The airport had been a last resort—or maybe some blind instinct he hadn't wanted to analyze.

Seeing him, alive and in the flesh not thirty feet away, relief flooded Methos's exhausted body with a flush of adrenaline weightlessness, making him sway minutely on his feet. Alive. He hadn't realized how afraid he'd been until the solid reality was there in front of him.

For almost a minute he stood there, letting his heartbeat slow, getting himself together. Mac hadn't sensed him, hadn't seen him. He stood alone near the rain-streaked windows, staring out with a fixed, near-catatonic stare that Methos recognized too well. He doubted MacLeod saw the tarmac outside, the raindrops sliding down the glass, or anything else in the here and now. His arms were folded tightly around himself, his hands hidden in his coat as if he couldn't bear to look at them.

Unexpected empathy welled through Methos, a deep sorrow that was as familiar as his own name, and almost as old. The waste. Always, the feeling of terrible waste when they died so young, and the savage frustration at the meaninglessness of it. It was enough to bring down the strongest of men, cut the bravest man down at the knees.

As Duncan had been brought down. It was written in every line of his body, the frozen, numb shock in his drawn face, aged now as Methos had never seen it.

When his own pain and regret ebbed at last and he could breathe again, he moved. "Mac," he said, drawing near to the rigid figure, not touching him.

But MacLeod didn't respond, didn't register his presence. His fixed gaze was a stranger's, so far gone within himself that Methos didn't think the man would have noticed a sword coming straight at his neck. Uneasy at the thought, Methos spoke a little louder. _"Mac."_

 __MacLeod recoiled slightly, turning, focusing on the present with a visible effort. His lips moved, but no sound came out; he had to swallow. "Methos," he said hoarsely, when he found his voice. Then his eyes shuttered again, and he drew back, as if he hadn't meant to say it, not like that. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you think? Looking for you."

MacLeod's brow furrowed slightly, as if this was a concept he couldn't get his mind around. "Why?"

The question, asked so guilelessly, made Methos's heart sink. Had they really fallen so far, that MacLeod didn't understand that much, at least? Maybe it was too late. Maybe he was fooling himself. What had made him think he could make any difference now? "Because I care about you," he said, his voice roughening with emotion. He was too tired, his nerves too frayed, to handle this well. "Because I'm worried about you. So's Joe," he added. "Mac, you need help."

But MacLeod was already turning away, his face set. "You shouldn't have come."

"Duncan—"

The moment his hand touched MacLeod's shoulder, the other man jerked away as if the touch burned him. The look he turned on Methos was one of pure, betrayed reproach, and Methos himself recoiled, taken aback by his heart's instinctive flinch. Their eyes locked, held, and Methos understood what he had denied with all his reasoning explanations, all his detached rationalization—that it didn't matter whether MacLeod was delusional or not, whether the demon was real or not, whether Mac's friends had failed him for perfectly logical, perfectly understandable reasons or not—Richie Ryan was dead, and all of them were to blame.

"You can't help me," MacLeod said dully, at last, eyes turning once more to the falling rain outside. "You can't help me, Methos. Let me go." His voice dropped, a rough whisper now, a plea. "I don't want anyone else to get hurt."

Methos had brought the katana. But he could see now that it had been for nothing. MacLeod wouldn't take it.

"Where will you go?" he asked, when he could.

MacLeod shook his head. Words seemed difficult for him, as if the few they'd spoken had exhausted him. "Away. East. It doesn't matter."

Methos tried to find something else to say. Something that would reach him, make a difference. But he knew now, the only thing he could do for MacLeod was to let him go and hope that time would heal what none of them could.

* * *

On the other side of the fingerprint-smudged glass a 767 taxied toward the gate. Not close enough to sense Amanda yet, but she'd be here in all her vexatious glory soon enough. In spite of lack of sleep and the cold knot of dread that coiled tighter in his belly with each hour that passed, his spirits lifted at the thought.

MacLeod. Dawson. Amanda. Somehow, somewhere in the last four years, they'd formed a family of sorts. Typical, he supposed, that it should take something like this to bring them together again. Rather like a little dysfunctional family reunion—with one conspicuously empty chair.

Before long, he could feel the hum of Amanda's buzz as a deep, clear note resonating in his temples and the base of his skull; in another minute she was there, chic as ever in a black short-sleeved sweater, butter-soft black leather pants, and a short cap of platinum hair. She strode through the jetway door, pale but determined, looking infinitely more rested than Methos himself felt.

And it was only as he rose to meet her that he realized how relieved he was to see her, how ridiculously, desperately grateful that she had come. He had time only for the fleeting realization that if she put her arms around him now, he didn't know if he'd be able to hold it together, then she was there, stopping in front of him, less than two feet away.

She didn't put her arms around him. Instead she looked him up and down, head tilted on one side. "You look like hell," she said, not unkindly.

The pressure in his throat eased, and he found his voice. "Well, thank you very much. And I cleaned up, too."

"Mm. And how long has it been since you slept?" She glanced at the paper cup in his hand. "Or ingested anything besides coffee?"

He shrugged.

"Thought so."

"Look, Amanda. Not to say I'm not glad to see you, but let's skip the mothering routine and get back to Joe's, shall we?"

He knew he'd betrayed himself on half a dozen levels before the words were even out—not that he'd ever really had any secrets where Amanda was concerned. Her dark gaze pained him, full of compassion and the suppressed gut-level fear that perhaps only she could fully share.

But she said only, "A little mothering never hurt anyone, you know. Not even you, Methos."

When he reached out wordlessly to take her bag, she let him, falling into step with him without speaking the questions he'd read in her eyes.

* * *

By the time they'd hailed a cab outside he'd brought her up to speed on what progress he and Joe had made with the database. The results of their multi-criteria search had been fruitful, if a little daunting; New York was too big, and the hub of too many travel routes, and the short list of Immortals who might be gunning for Duncan was anything but. The passenger manifests for arriving and connecting flights that night had turned up thirty-one Immortals and more than half again that many Watchers. Over a hundred Immortals were known to have residences in the city, or outside it, and most of them had some connection to Mac, somewhere. If they had weeks, or months, they might stand a chance, but as it was...

"You have a printout?" she asked. He produced it out of his coat, a sheaf of papers covered in small print which she took without comment. She was already scanning it as they got in. Methos gave Joe's address to the cabbie, then tried not to watch as the man pulled out into four lanes of traffic with barely a glance.

Amanda read to the end of the printout, then looked up, troubled. "It's going to take us a month to cover all these guys."

"Joe's still working on coordinating incoming reports for the past three days. We should be able to get a more accurate picture of who's been seen where, and when, and who might be MIA."

She glanced at the pages, then at the driver. "I don't like the idea of depending on the Watchers," she said quietly, brows drawn together in a frown. "You said Duncan was being followed. If you're right, if this really is something other than—than what it looks like—how do we know they're not right in the middle of it?"

"We don't, not for certain. But what choice do we have? It's been almost thirty-six hours already. We've got to start somewhere." He watched her page through the printout again, recognizing too well the overwhelmed, despairing panic that threatened to close in on her, faced with the scope of the task before them. He leaned close, his own voice pitched low. "Look, if I'm right, whoever was tailing him went to a lot of trouble to muddy their tracks. Why would they bother unless they wanted him alive?"

She drew a breath and nodded, some of the drawn tension easing from her face. "I know. You're right. He's out there, somewhere. I'd know it if he wasn't."

Methos nodded, trying not to think about how many times he'd told himself exactly the same thing.

* * *

Joe Dawson hit 'print' and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes tiredly. This mortality gig was a real bitch. Next thing you know he'd have to get fitted for bifocals or something. Just peachy, a Watcher wearing bifocals. Might as well take him out to the back pasture and shoot him. He flexed his shoulder, grimacing. Oh, yeah. Been there, done that, didn't care to repeat the experience. He was past due for a painkiller, but the things made him dopey as hell.

A glance at the clock told him it was ten-oh-six, which meant he'd been sitting in the same spot for almost five hours, ever since he'd rolled out of bed stiff and bleary-eyed from a too-brief catnap. Methos, of course, hadn't slept. Joe rarely, if ever, really envied the Immortal men and women he Watched—but at times like this it sure would come in handy to be cursed with a terminally twenty-five year old body.

When he got up, every muscle in his own body told him emphatically that he was a long way from twenty-five. He made his way to the kitchen, deciding to pass on the nuclear fusion coffee they had been drinking like water, opting instead for orange juice. He couldn't afford the good, stiff shot of bourbon he really wanted. Professor Pierson would be back before long, and he still had homework to do.

"All right, Mac," he muttered, retrieving the pages he'd printed. "Talk to me, buddy. Tell me which of these bastards we're dealing with and save us all a lot of trouble, wouldya?"

* * *

"Joe," Amanda said simply, all softness and warmth and expensive perfume as she hugged him tight, then kissed him on the cheek for good measure.

"Hey, what's that for?" He hugged her back, nonplused. "I thought I was on your blacklist these days."

"Well, that depends. Are we talking about Joe Dawson the Watcher, or Joe Dawson the friend?"

"They usually come as a package deal—but if it gets me a hello like that, you can take your pick." He let her go, thinking that he wasn't the first man to consider selling a little piece of his soul for Amanda's sake. "How's your sidekick these days?"

"Not very happy that I left him in Paris."

"Yeah, I'll bet. What'd you tell him?"

She sighed, glancing around the apartment at the considerable collection of files and notes they'd amassed since the previous morning. "Hopefully, enough to keep him out of trouble."

"Speaking of trouble," Methos put in, "we've been trying to decide how risky it would be to go over to Mac's place and see what we can find."

Amanda's eyebrows rose. "A little reconnaissance work? Sounds like my kind of gig."

Joe shook his head, dubious. "I dunno. Even if there's anything there to find, I don't like it. If we're supposed to believe he's dead, seems to me we'd better make like we believe it. The place could still be bugged for all we know."

"So, we'll do a little acting," Amanda reasoned. "Perfectly logical that his friends should want to take care of things, get his things in order. Right?"

 _A little acting._ Joe felt a sinking in his gut as it came home to him that he'd started thinking of MacLeod as being away temporarily, in trouble maybe, but no different from other times when one of them had been in trouble. Except this time it _was_ different.

Mac's car. Mac's sword. That headless body, down at the morgue. And only Methos's intuition and a handful of vaguely suspicious clues that this was anything but what it looked like.

"Joe, you okay?"

Methos. Standing close, not quite touching him.

"Yeah. Peachy." Feeling queasy, he turned away from the concerned looks the other two were giving him and made his way to the couch. "Okay, you win. We'll check out the situation, and if the cops have cleared out, we'll go."

Amanda sat down beside him, trying to lighten the moment. "Come on, Joe. Look at it this way, this cloak and dagger stuff should be right up your alley."

He gave a short laugh, without much humor. "I don't think they covered anything quite like this in the Watcher training manual."

"What's the verdict on our list of possible John Does?" asked Methos, pacing restlessly toward the window. "Were you able to narrow it down?"

"That's it right there." Joe pushed the updated printout across the coffee table with the end of his cane. Methos came back over and picked it up, scanning the first page. "Every known Immortal matching MacLeod's approximate body type and unaccounted for after eleven-thirty on Sunday. Priority given to anyone with a known location in or near the New York metro area during the past month, any known headhunters, and anyone with a known or suspected life span of three hundred years or more."

"Why three hundred?" Amanda asked.

Joe glanced at Methos. No easy way to say it. "The... collateral damage was pretty major. We figured it had to be someone who'd been around a while."

She digested that bit of information. "So how many does that leave?"

"We're down to a list of eleven possibles and four probables. That doesn't take into account anybody we don't have on record, of course."

"It also doesn't tell us anything about who was following him," Amanda pointed out. "Or why."

"No," Methos agreed, looking up. "But it might give us a clue where to start looking."

He handed her the printout, and she began to page through the brief dossiers. After she'd read four or five, she gave a low whistle. "This is a real Who's Who of people you don't want to meet in a dark alley, isn't it?"

Joe nodded grimly. "Yeah, well, there's a reason we don't have full time Watchers on some of these guys. Too dangerous. That one—Victor Salvatore—very bad news. Best guess puts his first death around the early 1500s, Spain. Killed two of our best people in '96."

"So what do we do?" she asked. "Put out an APB on these guys? Take out an ad in the Immortal classifieds?"

"Well, I figure we start with the four prime suspects, and treat 'em like a good P.I. would any missing persons file." He jabbed a finger at the page in her hand. "Start with the last known address and hit the bricks."

Methos leaned on the back of the armchair, arms crossed. "One thing, if we're going to start nosing around, we're definitely going to have to get ourselves a new base of operations. Preferably someplace with lots of handy witnesses around so we don't get any surprise visits from your 'burglar' friends, Joe."

Joe scowled. "You mean, so if we do stir up trouble it comes after one of you two, instead of me."

Methos didn't even have the grace to look guilty. "That was the general idea, yes."

"A hotel," Amanda suggested. "A good one, the kind where they respect their guests' privacy and don't ask too many questions."

Methos nodded agreement, and the two of them looked expectantly at Joe. He nodded reluctantly and got to his feet. "Then I guess I'd better start packing."

* * *

Amanda hurried to keep pace with Methos's long stride as he crossed the lobby toward the building's front door.

"Don't you think you're taking this protective thing a little too far?"

"What d'you mean?" he asked blandly, not slowing his pace.

"I don't see why you have to be the one to go poking around the hornet's nest. You heard Joe. These guys are dangerous."

"Hey, you volunteered for cloak and dagger, remember? That means I get to play private eye this time. You can play next round." He held the door for her, the lightness of his tone at odds with the focused purpose in his face. She could tell he was relieved to be doing something, even if it meant heading into trouble without backup. That was what worried her. What good were all those finely honed self-preservation instincts if he was going to throw them out the window whenever Duncan was in trouble?

"So, let's go together," she persuaded as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. "You watch my back while I go check things out at MacLeod's, then I'll return the favor. We've got to be smart about this, Methos. We're not going to do him any good if we lose our heads." He gave her a look, and she gave it right back. "You know I'm right."

"Yes, I do," he said, stopping and turning to face her, intent. "But I also know time is of the essence. Every hour we lose means the trail gets colder; it's been too long already. We've got to split up, cover as much ground as we can."

She looked at him hard, deciding she'd kept quiet long enough. "You're really just winging it here, aren't you?"

He went still, his face closing up tight. "Meaning?"

"Meaning, you really have no idea what we're looking for. We're grasping at straws, hoping there's a short one in the bunch." He started to draw back, something dangerous sparking in his eyes; she reached out and put a hand on his arm. "Don't get me wrong, I'm with you. But we have to be honest with each other. We haven't got a prayer of finding him if we can't trust each other."

He looked at her for a long minute, before the set of his face relaxed a fraction. "If I had all the answers, we wouldn't be here. All I know for certain is that there are clues out there waiting to be pieced together, and I'm trying to find as many of them as I can, as quickly as I can, because if Duncan is still out there, if he is still alive—well, I owe him that much, at least." A tight, sad ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "I'm doing the best I can, Amanda. The knight-on-white-charger routine is more his specialty, I'm afraid."

In that unguarded moment, she saw the depth of his fear and knew that she was right to worry—that whatever he said, his own safety was far from the top of his priority list.

She must have telegraphed the thought, for his face gentled unexpectedly, and he reached out, barely brushing fingertips along the fringe of her hair. "Don't you worry about me. I can take care of myself. You worry about getting in and out of there without getting into trouble, because if you don't, and we do find him, I don't want to be the one to have to explain it to him."

Heart hurting for him, she nodded. "I'll be careful if you will."

"Deal." He glanced at his watch. "You've got my cell number. If I don't hear from you or Joe, I'll meet you back at the Plaza around eight." He was already moving, obviously antsy to be gone, but he flashed her a last, wry look over his shoulder. "Watch your head."

"That's my line!" she called after him, watching him go. None of them had said as much, but they all knew it was entirely possible that their handful of clues might lead not to Duncan, but to his killer.

But she wouldn't think about that. Not until they were sure.

Methos's conviction was catching, she had to admit. Maybe they were all fooling themselves; maybe they were setting themselves up for an even bigger fall in the end. Maybe Methos just couldn't accept it.

But the wily old bastard's instincts had always been one step removed from prescience—especially where Duncan was concerned. No denying the connection that had always been there between the two of them, strong as electricity, from the very first. Maybe Methos did know something. It wouldn't be the first time Duncan had surprised her.

After watching Methos out of sight, Amanda turned in time to spot a cab coming down Second Avenue; adjusting the bag over her shoulder and checking her sword, she crossed the street and headed toward the corner at a jog.


	6. Chapter 6

There was something pleasantly insular about the close air of the subway after the harshness of the city, something oddly reassuring in the busy, hive-like buzz of the trains and their passengers as they wound purposefully and efficiently beneath the chaos of the streets above. The D.C. Metro might be cleaner, but Methos found he didn't mind the rush and press of bodies, the creak and groan of New York's much older underground network. This time of day, the trains out to the northeast part of the city were uncrowded, and would be faster than a cab.

He glanced out the window as the train slowed at the 68th Street platform. He had some way to go yet to reach his quarry, a truly unpleasant and paranoid son of a bitch whose most recent alias was Diego Santos, owner of a nightclub in Spanish Harlem that doubled as a clearing house for cocaine coming out of Puerto Rico. Salvatore was the oldest name the Watchers had on record for him, dating back to 1555, Barcelona. Apparently, he'd been a charming fellow even then, judging by his occupation as Inquisitor under the reign of the infamous Pope Paul IV.

Interesting progression, inquisitor to drug dealer, but that was not what had bumped Victor Salvatore to the top of Joe's list. Salvatore was not an active hunter; on the contrary, after the grim notation of the death of two Watchers at his hands in 1996, there were few notations at all, and no mention of contact with any other Immortals.

But when they'd cross-referenced his name with MacLeod's, they'd found a match. The two had fought in New York in 1929, something about a bootleg operation and a boy who had been killed; police had interrupted the fight and Salvatore had been forced to leave the city and his highly profitable enterprise to avoid prison. Reason enough, Methos and Joe had agreed, to make locating him a priority.

Methos held to the fact of the call Mac had made to Joe, and the Watcher's mysterious burglars. It was the best evidence they had so far that his instincts were right, that there was more going on here than met the eye. If they could conclusively identify the body in the morgue, they might begin to piece together a picture of what had happened in that garage. It took two Immortals to make a Quickening. Until they had something better to go on, the list of names and profiles in his hand was their best hope for determining Duncan's fate.

He wouldn't think about the alternate possibility: that he would find Salvatore alive, that he would be forced to kill the bastard, that he would feel the pale, ghost-fire afterimage of a familiar presence in the moment when the lightning took him.

Methos folded up the printout he'd memorized an hour ago and put it away. He let his attention wander to the faint tunnel lights as they flashed a rhythmic pattern in the darkness, letting the cadence of the train calm him, making an effort to center himself for what was to come. He could scarcely believe how eager he'd been to implement this pathetic excuse for a plan. What would Mac say, if he could see Methos now? Rushing headlong into a fight, actively hunting the worst of their kind? Methos could picture his reaction. The original boyscout would laugh himself silly, then ask to hear the punch line.

If only Methos could be sure they would both be around to share the joke, he might be able to find the humor in it.

He leaned his forehead against the window, not really seeing the rush of motion and flickering lights beyond the glass. The number of times he'd heard MacLeod laugh—really laugh—he could probably have counted on one hand. Even in their best moments, there had always been some darkness shadowing the careful cease-fire that passed for friendship between them. If only they'd met in another century, he'd thought more than once. Some other lifetime. Maybe things would have been different.

Maybe that was what made the idea of Mac's death so hard to accept. He'd always thought there would be time for them, somehow. Always expected that in the end, if it ever came, the great wheel would circle around and it would be MacLeod and him at the last. Somewhere in the back of his mind, that idea had felt so real, he'd begun to believe it.

Rubbish, of course. He ought to know by now, the world didn't work that way. If nothing else, the death of Richie Ryan should have been a vivid reminder.

Mac had known. Had tried to tell him, more than once. _I won't lose like that again, Methos. I can't._

 _No one else dies because of me._

But after the long year and more of silence, Methos hadn't wanted to hear it.

* * *

 **_November 6th, 1998_ **

The sun had already dipped below the horizon as the silhouette of Notre Dame rose up ahead of him, casting its soft reflection on the river in purples and golds. And there, as familiar as the cathedral itself, was the barge, in its customary place, as if it had never been otherwise.

Three days, Methos congratulated himself with some satisfaction. Well, two and a half, but who was counting? He'd done well to last as long as he had, when the knowledge that MacLeod was back in Paris had been singing in him like the first promise of spring after a long winter.

He'd known the moment he strolled into Joe's two days before. Joe had always been an easy read, and Methos had known the smug, cat-with-a-canary expression could mean only one thing. The Watcher had held out all of exactly five minutes before he'd let it slip, as he casually went about setting up the chairs for the evening crowd, that MacLeod was back from London.

Methos had affected equally casual nonchalance. Joe had already filled him in on what he'd missed in the ongoing MacLeod saga, giving him the whole improbable tale over a whiskey bottle in the wake of their run-in with Morgan Walker. Methos still didn't know how he felt about the idea of millennial demons walking the streets of Paris, but he'd gotten the important facts. Mac was sound in body and mind, he was still playing the hero on a fairly regular basis, and he was carrying his sword again; in short, he was all right.

Hearing at last the news he'd been waiting for, that MacLeod was back in Paris, Methos had played it cool, then finished his beer and left, reluctant to let their first meeting happen in a crowded bar. He needed to see Mac alone first, to confirm with his own eyes that the worst was past. Needed to talk to him, to try and get off on the right foot, without distractions, without Dawson looking on.

He'd curbed the impulse to go to the barge right then and there, knowing that MacLeod would be tired from his trip and would probably just as soon spend a quiet afternoon at home alone. Better to wait a day, let him get settled. Maybe call first...no, the telephone would be too awkward. Neither of them had ever been much for calling ahead. They'd always simply shown up on one another's doorsteps when the mood suited. With that thought, Methos had made himself turn away from the river, towards home, finding to his surprise that he needed a little time himself, to deal with the fierce and wholly unexpected thrill of excitement he felt at the prospect of seeing Mac again.

Now, more than two days later, he stood at the railing overlooking the quay, the same surge of anticipation making his heart beat fast and eager. He didn't know why he'd felt the need to wait as long as he had, except that it had thrown him, that light, dangerous feeling of expectation, of hope, and he'd needed to prove to himself that he hadn't completely lost all reason and self-control where MacLeod was concerned. For over a year he'd kept thoughts of regrets and might-have-beens at bay, contenting himself with Amanda's infrequent calls and the news she got from Joe, distracting himself with traveling, with the solace of his well-honed sense of fatalism, as comfortable as a second skin. Unfortunately, all that had gone out the window as soon as he'd found his compass turning unerringly, inevitably, back towards Paris.

A green SUV was parked a little distance from the barge, and a warm glow lit the portholes from within: good signs that Mac was home. If Methos was lucky, he would be cooking dinner, some fragrant, delicious smell ready to greet him—assuming MacLeod's predictable, impeccable sense of hospitality hadn't deserted him some time in the last year and a half.

Of course it was entirely possible that Mac had a lady friend visiting tonight. Joe had said MacLeod was mostly alone these days, but this was MacLeod they were talking about. Anything was possible.

He couldn't help the grin that found its way to his face the moment he felt the other man's buzz wash over him like a breath of cool wind. Nothing for it now, he shrugged as he strode up the gangplank. He was committed. He could always make a graceful exit if necessary. He turned and started down the steps, tucking his hands in his pockets against the November chill.

Methos stopped at the sight of the open door below, the man who stood waiting for him in the hatchway.

MacLeod's stance and expression were so carefully controlled, for a long moment Methos could read nothing from him, and the distance between them, between this moment and a time when they had understood one another, felt vast, impossible. He had the curious feeling that he was facing some wild creature, that behind that closed expression, the dark eyes were considering him the way a bear considers a hunter, debating whether to run or attack. He held his breath and that deep gaze, waiting to see what the conclusion would be.

 _He's cut his hair,_ Methos thought, as the moment stretched out between them. The soft thickness curled now against the smooth column of Duncan's neck, making him look curiously younger. He was thinner, too, not a superfluous ounce of flesh on that well-made frame, the loose, pale clothing he wore emphasizing the pure lines of his body. An unexpected, traitorous heat blossomed gently in Methos's belly, unfurling like warm honey in places that had been cold a very long time. He'd forgotten this somehow. Maybe, seeing him on a daily basis, he'd gotten used to the fact of the man's beauty. It caught him off guard now, throwing him badly. He hadn't planned on his body betraying him quite so insistently.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked in a rush, not meaning to be the first to speak but unable to take the tense silence another moment. "I can come back— "

MacLeod blinked, then took a half step back, not quite an invitation. "No. No, it's fine, I just—you caught me by surprise, that's all. I was making dinner." He seemed to recover some equilibrium, the guardedness in his expression easing, and he moved back a little further, out of the doorway. "Come in, please."

Methos followed him down into the salon, knowing he'd better take a stab at recovering his own equilibrium before he blew the whole thing. "How was London?" he asked, seizing on the first neutral topic that came to mind.

MacLeod moved away toward the kitchen area, where he'd been cutting up some kind of greens. "As cold and wet and grey as I remembered. Makes Paris look sunny by comparison. The benefit went off well, though." He opened the small fridge, peering inside. "I'm afraid I don't have any beer. Mineral water's about it, or can I get you a glass of wine? Maybe something stronger?"

"I'll get it," Methos offered, spotting the narrow chest that served as Mac's liquor cabinet.

MacLeod's living space had changed considerably since the last time Methos had seen it. Not surprisingly, the room had an eastern touch to it, more spartan than Mac had preferred in the past, but still comfortable and functional. All evidence of the sensualist was gone, however; no rich tapestries or deep, intense hues of green and gold and rust remained. The galley had been rearranged, and had the look of a kitchen that didn't see much use any more. A shame, that. Mac had always had such a penchant for cooking, and a real talent for it. You could never spend much time in MacLeod's homes without him trying to feed you, sooner or later. It spoke to his solitary lifestyle that he'd given up the hobby.

One thing, at least, hadn't changed. A fire was crackling in the stove, welcome against the damp chill outside, and Methos took off his coat and hung it up. Mac hadn't brought his sword with him to the door, Methos registered belatedly, watching him work at the counter. Was it because he'd guessed the identity of his visitor, or did it signify something more profound about Mac's frame of mind these days?

"Can you stay for dinner?" Mac asked, not glancing up from his chopping.

"If it's not any trouble."

"Not at all. I'm making hand rolls. I've got plenty."

"Then count me in."

MacLeod glanced up, meeting his gaze, a hint of a smile in his eyes, the first Methos had seen. "Tell me something, is it coincidence that you always manage to show up right around dinner time?"

Some of the tension went out of Methos's neck and shoulders, and he managed an innocent look that was pure wide-eyed, vintage Adam Pierson. "Do I? I hadn't noticed."

He poured himself a finger of scotch and nursed it, circling the room, noting other changes. A few decorative pieces, but none that he'd seen before. No pictures of Tessa or Richie. And yet Mac had kept the barge, holding on to that other life even as he tried to let go of the past. Not unlike Methos himself, whose feet always seemed to find their way back to this man's door.

Comfortable, but lonely and more than a bit depressing, Methos concluded, considering the room as a whole. To someone who knew MacLeod, the stark colorlessness of the place spoke of some essential wrongness, some damage still not healed—and this place was hardly going to help. He felt a pang, thinking of the long months he'd spent traveling, rationalizing to himself that MacLeod needed time alone to find his balance again. He'd been afraid, he realized now. Afraid to come home and find that home had changed beyond recognition. He hadn't thought that being alone might be the last thing Mac needed now. MacLeod projected an aura of deliberate calm, of centered peace, but Methos could feel his loneliness now like a wrong note in a chord of music.

He turned back towards the galley, taking a seat on one of the two bar stools so he could watch MacLeod work. The broad hands handled the knife with perfect efficiency, making neat rows of julienned scallions and slivers of cucumber.

"Joe tells me you two've been getting into some trouble," Mac said, eyes on his work.

It caught Methos off guard for a moment. He should have expected that Joe would have told MacLeod about Walker and their little adventure together—but somehow he hadn't.

"We managed to work it out." He hoped Joe hadn't offered too many details about how he'd gotten caught raiding the Watcher's pantry.

"Glad to hear it," MacLeod said simply, glancing up for a moment, hands pausing in their rhythmic motion. And then, unexpectedly, he added, "It's good to see you, Methos."

"Good to be seen," Methos quipped, after a long, surprised moment in which a certain suspicious pressure in his throat kept him from speaking.

But Mac didn't smile, only studied his face as if looking for something, some answer to a question he hadn't asked aloud; at last he nodded a little, as if to himself, and went back to slicing cucumber.

"What about you?" Methos asked, the lightness feeling forced. "Keeping yourself busy?"

"Always do."

"Slaying dragons, rescuing damsels in distress, that sort of thing?"

MacLeod hesitated only a moment in his preparations. Methos expected a dark look, but MacLeod nodded, refusing to bite. "Right. The usual."

"Any particularly nice damsels?" Methos prodded, hoping he was wrong and Mac hadn't really been as alone here as he seemed, some part of him needing to know for other, more selfish reasons.

Mac shrugged easily. "One or two."

The way he said it told Methos that he hadn't been wrong. "But no one special."

MacLeod looked up at that, eyes shadowed by something Methos couldn't read. "No," he said evenly, "no one special."

The guarded look was back, the closed wariness he'd shown in the stairwell. Methos suddenly had the feeling that he'd trespassed on vulnerable ground, full of hidden mines. The warnings had been there, written so plainly in the pared down lines and planes of MacLeod's face, the bare, grey walls of the barge and the careful veneer of detachment he wore like armor, but Methos had chosen not to see them. He'd wanted things to go back to how they'd once been, so much so that he'd let himself forget that Mac had been to the edge of his own hell, had felt it consume him, and had emerged again on the other side by some path Methos couldn't even imagine. This was not the same man he had known, and he'd do well to remember that.

The dark eyes didn't falter, but held his with frank, unflinching honesty, for a moment letting Methos see the truth, the isolation and doubt he concealed beneath that carefully guarded calm. At last MacLeod glanced down at his hands, something like irony canting his mouth.

"Yeah," he said, smiling a little painfully, "I know how you feel. I sometimes find myself wondering what happened to the old me, too."

Methos's heart kicked. The pressure in his chest felt like a fist. "Mac, I— "

The smile vanished. "Don't, Methos." Mac drew a breath, then looked up again, meeting his gaze. "It's all right, really. Let's... let's keep it simple tonight, what do you say? Dinner, a few drinks, catch up on things?"

The wistful hope in his friend's face made something ache in Methos, an answering hunger for the same thing. Just to be with him, for once, and not have to think, not have to deal with the big questions. "It's been a long time," he said huskily, wondering if such a thing were possible for them any more.

"Too long," Mac agreed. A ghost of the smile returned. "Think we can manage it?"

"Just dinner, no casualties?" Duncan nodded, and in spite of himself, Methos found himself starting to smile in answer. "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

Sometimes the best plans were the simplest ones. They ate at a low table, sitting on pillows on the floor, finding that good food, wine, and the soft crackle and warmth of the wood stove went a long way towards easing the tension between them. Dinner led to coffee and then cognac by the fire, their initial, awkward attempts at safe conversation relaxing by degrees as the evening wore on. For the last half hour or so Methos had found himself telling stories of his latest travels in the Mediterranean, both of them lounging against pillows and sipping MacLeod's excellent stock, both mellowed to the point of easy companionship.

"I'm telling you, Mac, you need a change of scenery. How long has it been since you were in Greece?"

"Mm... must have been 1936." MacLeod smiled a little, remembering. "Amanda had this great little place in the islands."

"There. You see? A little sunshine, a nice stretch of blue water—works wonders."

Mac's smile turned wry. "As I recall, it was Amanda who worked wonders."

Methos chuckled. "I don't doubt it." Relaxed and content with the current state of his world for the first time in a very long time, he could find it in himself to be magnanimous. "Where is the little minx, anyway? She ought to be here cheering you up."

"I don't need cheering up, Methos," MacLeod said mildly, watching the play of the firelight on the liquid in his glass.

"Could've fooled me."

The dark eyes rose to meet his, a look that made his stomach tighten, both a warning and an acknowledgment, a flicker of amusement shadowed by sadness and the memory of a long ago afternoon on a sun-dappled porch. "I'm happy enough," Mac said at last.

"Are you?"

MacLeod's only answer was a faint smile, his eyes lowering, their expression hidden behind the long lashes. He took a sip of his drink and said nothing.

Methos leaned forward, persisting. "It's not good for you to be alone so much. You need to get out of this barge, meet people. Mortals, I'm talking about. Feel your own mortality, and remember what life is all about."

MacLeod seemed to have found something very interesting in the bottom of his glass. At last he shrugged, sitting up as if this turn in the conversation were making him acutely uncomfortable. He laid one hand flat on the table, studying his fingertips. "I don't know if I still remember how to do that," he said at last.

"Nonsense. Of course you do. Nothing that we are ever really disappears, Mac."

"And you would know."

The jab was so unexpected, Methos almost flinched. Lulled into letting his guard down, he'd almost forgotten how quickly, how easily they could hurt one another.

He drew a careful breath, knowing that it had been a defensive shot, meant to distract him. Well, he wouldn't fall for it. "Yes," he said at last. "That's right. I would know."

MacLeod looked away, trying to hide something stark and painful in his face, something that surfaced too quickly for him to conceal. "I don't know why I said that. Maybe it's for the best. Maybe I'm better off this way."

"Better... you mean alone? Better not to care too much, to keep yourself apart? Get involved, but only so far? Let yourself feel only as much as you have to, to stay sane?" Mac was staring at him, a look of startled suspicion, and Methos knew he'd got it in one. "I have been there, MacLeod. Not so long ago. Trust me, I know what you're trying to do, and it doesn't work, not for long. You will love again, no matter how hard you try to fight it. It's in your nature." He cut himself off, fearing he'd already revealed too much.

MacLeod bowed his head, his fingers tightening on the stem of his glass. "I won't lose like that again, Methos. I can't." His voice had sunk to a rough whisper.

"Yes, you can," Methos said, putting all the conviction into it he could muster. "And you will. And you'll get through it, like you've gotten through everything else. You'll see. It may not seem that way now, but you will find your way back, in time."

"It's been months." MacLeod's frustration with himself was plain.

"Give yourself a break, Mac. What's a month, in the scheme of things? Keep doing what you're doing. Things are better for you now, aren't they, than they were?"

"Sometimes I think so. Sometimes I'm not so sure."

Methos chuckled softly, recognizing that feeling. "Well, that's a sure sign that you're getting better." He put his glass down, shifting closer. "Duncan, what happened to you and Richie was a terrible thing. You can't expect to heal overnight."

Duncan's breath caught, as if Methos had slipped a knife between his ribs. He turned his face away, closed his eyes, but his pain was still clearly written all over him. "When, then?" he said at last, as if the words themselves hurt him.

There was nothing Methos could say to that, and his throat was too tight to form words anyway. He reached out and laid his hand on Duncan's broad, warm one on the table, squeezing it gently.

As if the spark of physical contact were all that was needed, all Methos's old feelings for the man crested in him without warning, a deep well of longing made painfully manifest by the faint tremor he could feel in Duncan, the awareness of that warm, muscular body and how it would respond to the touch of friendly hands, how badly Duncan needed to be touched, held, loved by someone who knew him, who could remind him of who he was.

The temptation was very strong. If ever there had been a moment when Duncan might have let him do what he wanted, have anything he wanted, it was this moment. Methos knew it as intimately as he'd ever known anything.

The only thing that stopped him was the awareness of the trust it had cost Duncan to confess his pain like that, how far he had come to be able to let Methos in as far as he had tonight. To betray that fragile trust now, to take advantage of it, would probably destroy any chance they had at a real friendship. Methos had reconciled himself long ago to the knowledge that some things were not meant to be. Whatever MacLeod might allow in a moment of weakness, it wouldn't change who he was at the core: a man who loved women, who needed to be with someone he could care for, someone he could protect. Sooner or later, he would have second thoughts, and he was in no shape now to handle it well—nor did Methos trust himself to maintain any distance, when being with him after so long was making his blood sing.

Methos let him go, the effort costing him dearly. He uncapped the cognac decanter with hands that were blessedly steady, and poured them both another. "Come on," he said gently, putting a little distance between them for his own sanity's sake. "Drink with me. Doctor's orders."

Duncan found a smile for him, some of the sadness clearing from his expression. "What shall we drink to?" he asked, lifting his glass.

"What about to friendship?"

Duncan nodded, and they saluted one another, then drank. "To acceptance," Duncan added after a moment, his eyes dark as the sea at night, deep enough to drown in. He held Methos's gaze meaningfully, the message unmistakable.

"To acceptance," Methos echoed past the ache in his throat, and when the other man tipped his glass back a second time, he mirrored the gesture.

When they were finished, Duncan set his glass down and reached a hand across the table; Methos took it without thinking, and Duncan levered himself to his feet, pulling Methos up with him. "I don't know about you, but that's enough self-pity for me for one night."

Methos had to agree, a relieved grin escaping him. Best to quit while they were ahead. He didn't want anything to mar the memory of this night. "Next time we watch Marx Brothers movies instead?"

Duncan grinned back. "Your place or mine?"

"Yours, of course. But I'll bring the beer."

"Deal." He followed as Methos made his way towards the door. "Tomorrow night, maybe?"

"Sounds good to me," Methos said, thinking that nothing had sounded better in a long time.

But the next night everything had fallen apart, and the Marx Brothers had never happened.

* * *

He should have guessed, he thought, when the worst of his embarrassment had cooled and he was on his way to Joe's place, long stride eating up the pavement, hands thrust savagely into his pockets. Should have at least had some glimmer of a thought in his head about who might account for that second Immortal signature. The really mortifying part of the whole scene was the fact that he hadn't. Not even for a second had it crossed his mind that Mac might not be in trouble, might not need Methos's help at all with the kind of struggle he was engaged in.

Which explained why he'd burst in on MacLeod and Amanda _in flagrante delicto_ with his sword drawn, his heart thudding with adrenaline and what had to have been a truly comical look on his face.

And good lord, of all the images to have burned onto your retinas, that had to take the cake. Even now, thinking of it made him break out in a sweat, made him walk faster, as if he could escape the image of the two of them breathing hard and naked as the day they were born, the sheen of sweat on dusky skin and pale, Amanda rolling to her feet swift as a cat with sword in hand and Duncan going after her, unmistakably aroused—

Maybe at some future date he'd be glad of that memory, but right now, he'd be happy to do without it, thank you very much.

To his further mortification, MacLeod had come after him. Had stopped him at the top of the gangplank and tried to apologize—as if he was the one who'd made a fool of himself—while Methos was struggling to deal with a startling and extremely disconcerting surge of something that could only be raw, irrational jealousy. It hadn't helped matters that Duncan was clad in nothing but a short, clingy silk robe that left less than nothing to the imagination. If Kronos had tried to devise a truly sinister, torturous hell for Methos to burn in, he could have done worse than to come up with the scene he'd just lived through.

Still, he was five thousand years old. He really should have kept it together. Should have been able to handle the situation with some minimal degree of aplomb, regardless of whatever demons of jealousy had chosen that moment to rear their ugly heads. Only it hadn't turned out that way, had it? Aplomb had evaded him, and his talent for saying the wrong thing at the right moment had, very probably, made matters worse. What had he said? Something—God help him—about getting back on the horse.

"Idiot," he muttered, glad that at least he hadn't stuck around long enough to see Mac's reaction to that one. He was lucky Mac hadn't slugged him, come to think of it. And what was he so angry about, anyway? Last night he'd practically told MacLeod to go find Amanda and do what came naturally.

Some things, he'd decided, did not bear thinking about too closely. He'd suffered enough for one night. Surely he deserved a drink for his troubles.

On cue, Le Blues Bar had come into view, and he'd hurried inside without the slightest idea of what kind of troubles that particular night still had in store for him.

* * *

Immortal recall was merciless, not letting Methos escape the inevitable conclusion: the memory of O'Rourke, of Duncan kneeling in front of that rat bastard, and what had come after. He wished he could make himself believe that he'd played no part in MacLeod's attempted sacrifice, that he was not to blame for the way Mac had drawn away from all of them, even Amanda, in the days that followed. The worst kind of luck, that O'Rourke had fulfilled Mac's worst nightmare less than twenty-four hours after Methos had urged him to relax his guard, to let himself feel again.

But luck was not to blame for his failure to understand how fragile MacLeod still was, how ready to lay down his sword and give it all up if only he didn't have to live through another loss. If Methos had understood anything at all, it wouldn't have come as such a blow to find himself on the receiving end of what amounted to a 'Dear Methos's speech two days later. In spite of his anger and, admittedly, his pain at that civilized, courteous freeze-out, he hadn't been able to escape the nagging feeling that somehow the betrayal was his; that somehow, he was the one who had failed.

"Hundred and third," came the voice of the subway operator, a welcome interruption to his bleak thoughts. Showtime. Adrenaline started to kick through his system as he rose to his feet and the train began to slow.

Not again, he vowed, checking his sword. Whatever Duncan's fate, this time he was not giving up so easily.


	7. Chapter 7

**_East Harlem  
1:10 p.m._ **

As Methos had hoped, Saint Cecilia's was nearly deserted on a Tuesday afternoon. The interior of the church was cool after the bright spring day, sunlight slanting through the stained-glass windows, glinting off the gilt dome above the altar and sparkling in the white-stoned well that greeted him inside the entrance. Other than a couple of _abuelitas_ in prayer near the front of the church, the place was empty. Perfect.

He'd chosen the Catholic church for its location, less than three blocks from the subway station, on a street likely to be bustling with foot traffic in the middle of the day. He was under no illusions about the wisdom of the course he'd chosen, but a little risk management was never a bad idea.

The press of hours passing was foremost in his mind. Amanda was right: it was making him reckless. But some sixth sense was telling him that he couldn't afford to take a slow, careful approach to unraveling the puzzle before him; the feeling that time was running out for all of them pressed cold and heavy against his heart. He glanced at his phone, willing it to ring. Joe had promised to contact him the moment he had anything concrete. Salvatore was a long shot, but long shots seemed to be all they had at the moment and until Joe and Amanda uncovered something more for them to go on, the man's history with MacLeod was too convenient a connection to ignore. Methos's immediate goal was to find the Spaniard, alive or dead, and to determine by any means necessary whether he'd been in that parking garage two nights ago. Beyond that... beyond that would have to wait until he had the answer to that pressing question.

The phone remained stubbornly silent. Methos climbed the steps to the cool, shadowed gallery and sat down. Leaning forward, elbows on knees and the phone cradled between them, he dialed the number for La Islita, Salvatore's club. As expected, a machine answered. Salsa played, and a voice told him in Spanish that he could leave a message at _la tonalidad._ When the tone came, he kept it short and to the point. "This message is for Victor Salvatore. I have information that I believe will prove invaluable to you, Cardenal Salvatore. I suggest you meet me at Saint Cecilia's this afternoon; I will be here until four o'clock. Come alone." He ended the call.

He'd deliberately used the name Salvatore, knowing it would be the surest way to draw the Immortal out if he were still in the picture. If not, maybe it would draw bigger game. Absently, Methos slipped his hand under his coat, found the hilt of his sword, and let it fit into his hand for a moment, feeling its weight like an old friend.

 _You sure you know what you're doing?_

The inner voice of reason had started to sound annoyingly familiar. He did his best to ignore it, but he couldn't seem to escape the accompanying image, that particular, dubious expression of Mac's, that combination of raised eyebrow and amused tolerance that he'd always found so irritating.

 _Because frankly, you've come up with better plans, Methos._

"Nobody asked you," he said under his breath, closing his eyes and rubbing his hands over his face. The lack of sleep must be catching up with him. Then again, everything he'd done in the past thirty-six hours could probably be construed as proof that he'd gone round the bend; talking to an absent MacLeod was just the clincher. Not for the first time, he asked himself what the hell he thought he was playing at. Why he was so sure that Mac was still out there somewhere. Why he couldn't let it go.

 _Because he wouldn't,_ the answer came, not Mac's voice this time, but his own.

And? So what? He wasn't Mac, God knew. It wasn't like him to fight the inevitable like this, to keep believing in the impossible when any sane man would have accepted the inevitable.

 _And I suppose that's why you went after the Methuselah Stone. Accepting the inevitable._

The memory rose at the thought, vivid and familiar, the bridge, Amanda with the crystal in her hands, the terrible, soaring hope he'd felt when he'd seen it, when MacLeod had stepped out of hiding and come striding toward him, fearless and sure. How his heart had leapt, seeing him. He'd been so desperately grateful that they'd come for him. It was a memory he'd kept close, one he'd held onto in those long weeks with Kronos, and later, when MacLeod had killed Ryan. It had stayed with him in the months of silence that had fallen between them, and now, as always, it awoke that illogical, inescapable faith in the man that he couldn't seem to shake. MacLeod was out there somewhere because the alternative was unthinkable.

 _I think he was being followed,_ Joe had said.

Who, then? Some old enemy with a grudge and a sadistic streak, or an agenda beyond the Game? A renegade Watcher? Someone who knew that Mac had friends who would come after him if he simply disappeared.

But if it had been a Watcher, say a hunter like Horton, why not simply kill him? Methos couldn't quite put his finger on it, but this didn't feel like Watchers to him, and it wasn't only the coincident timing of Joe's burglary that made him feel that way. Hunters might have tried to use MacLeod against his friends, but why would they need to break into Joe's apartment? Why kidnap an Immortal, then go to so much trouble to cover it up? Not to use him as a hostage; there'd been no demands, no threats. So what could they hope to gain?

In the cool quiet of the church, the hum of the fountain's plumbing was a soft purr, broken only by the occasional rumble of trucks in the street outside.

Time, the answer came then, a quiet certainty opening in his mind's eye like a book falling open to the right page. Someone had wanted to buy time. But time for what? To do what? It seemed a long way to go for revenge.

And how much time? he thought then, a quiet chill spreading through him, the intuitive certainty he'd been avoiding for hours surfacing at last. Anyone willing to go to such extreme lengths to conceal a kidnapping was not likely to leave any loose ends. Of course he knew that, too.

Mac had ditched his Watcher, he reminded himself, replaying Joe's account of the report Macklin had given him. Ditched his Watcher and gone to that parking garage on his own. Why? As much as Mac disliked Watchers on general principle, he generally ignored his own, he and Joe colluding to preserve the fiction that he would ever enjoy any kind of real privacy, being who and what he was. Why go out of his way to keep Macklin out of the picture?

Methos turned that over in his mind like a smooth box with no visible seams, searching for the key that might open it and reveal the answer that lay inside.

To protect him?

That certainly rang true as something Mac would do. Protect and serve, right down to his own Watcher. It was all too likely. And if he'd been protecting Macklin, had he been protecting Joe, too? Methos's chill deepened. How much had Mac known about the trap he was walking into, and was there any chance that he'd left some kind of message for them to find, some kind of clue, even if it was only a warning to stay out of it?

Aggravating git. The chill dissipated in a hot flush of anger. It would be just like MacLeod to walk right into the lion's den all on his own, no backup plan, unwilling to risk anyone else, even if it meant leaving himself vulnerable and without any safety net.

 _And does that sound like anyone else we know?_

 _You shut up,_ he shot back absently.

But he was thinking of Amanda, hoping she was watching her back.

* * *

 **_SoHo  
2:25 p.m._ **

With a casual glance that took in most of the street behind her, Amanda made a mental note of the cars parked in front of MacLeod's building. She unlocked his mailbox and tucked the contents away in her coat, then let herself in with the keys Joe had given her. The small device in her pocket would vibrate silently if it picked up any sign of a transmitter, but she knew better than to assume the absence of such a warning meant she wasn't being watched. The weight of her sword and the semiautomatic pressing at the small of her back provided more of a sense of security.

The street level of the building consisted mainly of an old storefront, empty now, which MacLeod had apparently been in the process of converting into what looked like showroom space. Stepladders, masonry tools, and materials waited patiently for hands to put them to work, the worn hardwood floor covered with plastic drop cloths white with masonry dust. Numerous footprints cut a path through the dust now, too many to count. The police, and who knew who else, had already been and gone.

Amanda made her way towards the pre-war cage elevator at the back of the big room, smiling a little at the memories it evoked. She could picture Duncan walking into this place for the first time, could easily imagine him feeling at home here, deciding to remake the old cast-iron building into a place he'd want to come home to. Funny, he'd never seemed to be the kind of man who stayed in one place, not in the old days, anyway. It was only in recent years that he'd started showing the nesting instinct. She supposed that had been Tessa's doing.

Much like MacLeod's loft in Seacouver, the second, third, and fourth floors had been consigned to storage, and Amanda left them alone for the time being. The plan was to get in and get out as quickly as possible, gather as much intelligence as she could and make it look good for anyone who might be watching. If necessary, she or Methos could come back tonight and search the place more thoroughly.

The top two stories of the building made up the loft's living area, and Amanda stopped the lift at the fifth floor and got out. She found herself in an open, airy space framed by high ceilings and wide wood floors. The architecture was sparse and starkly modern, the artistic furnishings contrastingly warm and organic. More austere than MacLeod's loft in Seacouver, but no less appealing, she decided.

She drew a deep breath, letting herself absorb the feel of the place for a moment, letting her instincts take over, but no sense of immediate threat triggered her internal alarms. Of course, her instincts had been wrong, on occasion—but not often. Relaxing a little, she moved into the main downstairs room and started looking around. An open kitchen took up a good portion of the downstairs space, and a geometric, steel-cable staircase led up to the second level, where skylights must be letting in the sunlight that poured down into the apartment.

In the corner by the windows MacLeod had arranged a small office area, with a couple of file cabinets and bookshelves, and an antique architect's desk. To her practiced eye, it looked as though someone had been through it already. She knew Duncan kept a laptop, but it was nowhere in evidence, and a casual search of the office area produced no backup storage media. Allowing herself the tiniest bit of hope at that, she took her time with the files, putting several into her backpack: personal finance records, for the most part, and anything else that she thought might prove useful. She suspected that would amount to very little, but that in itself would support Methos's theory that there was some sort of cover up going on.

Finished with the file cabinets, she sat at the desk and picked up the phone. There was a notepad beside it. Making a show of looking for a pen, she ran her fingertips lightly across the surface of the paper, but detected no imprints; if there had been anything written on the pad, someone had already removed that page and the next few as well, leaving no clues for her to find.

Pen located, she picked up the phone, pulled her organizer out of her backpack, and began ostensibly looking up a number. The phone was a high-tech digital model, and a surreptitious press of one button showed her the last ten calls dialed—or would have, except that the call log was empty.

Amanda suppressed a little surge of adrenaline, knowing she'd found the best evidence yet that Duncan might still be alive—or at least that something more than the obvious had befallen him. This was the work of a pro. Open up the phone and short the battery, and poof, the phone's memory reset. Evidence for Methos's theory was mounting up fast. Better than that, it meant that one of the numbers dialed from this phone in the past few days was probably a lead. Joe was already working on getting Duncan's phone records. When he did, maybe they'd have something to go on.

So far, her bug detector hadn't gone off, but there were other forms of surveillance that didn't require a transmitter, and she now suspected she was performing for an audience. Dialing the number she'd planned out in advance, she checked the time of a flight back to Paris that evening—one she had no intention of catching. She wrote the flight number and departure time on the pad, tore it off and put it into her organizer, and hung up the phone.

Mind busy with possibilities, Amanda made a slow circuit of the bottom floor, not sure what she was looking for, just trying to get a feel for Duncan's life here, for anything out of the ordinary. It had been a long time since she'd seen him, even longer since she'd spent any real time with him. Only those few nights in Paris, an impulse she probably should have resisted. She'd been feeling sorry for herself, and missing Nick, who was in Toronto and under the mistaken impression that she was dead. She hadn't expected the warmth with which Duncan had welcomed her, the hope in his eyes when he'd asked if she meant to stay. She'd only wanted, for one night, to be with someone who meant no strings, no complications. How could she have predicted that this time, after two years apart, he'd want something different? Or that Liam O'Rourke would pick that night of all nights to come looking for a fight?

And of course, given the perfect contrariness of life and of her own nature, the timing couldn't have been worse. There was Nick, for one thing. Methos, for another. The look on his face when he'd burst in on them was forever etched in her memory. Now, half a year later, it didn't seem like he and Duncan were any closer to figuring things out between them—and what was Methos supposed to do if they didn't find Duncan alive?

Anxious now to get in touch with Joe and find out if he'd gotten the phone records, she headed up to the top floor to do a once-over there. Sunshine pooled warmly on the floor, dust motes dancing lazily in the afternoon light. The room was striking, Manhattan chic in its simple geometry, saved from pure austerity by the judicious choice of several antique pieces and the familiar tapestry that hung behind the bed at the far end of the loft. There was very little else in the room that spoke to her of Duncan, and a quick glance through the bookshelves and the neatly kept bathroom revealed nothing unusual. She thought about looking for a hidden safe, but he hadn't made a habit of keeping one in the past. The man barely locked his doors. Well, that was probably her fault, at least in part, she mused. Considering the company he tended to keep, he probably figured there wasn't much point.

She went at last to the night table and looked in the drawer, an unexpected ache rising in her throat when she saw the familiar contents. Here, at least, was proof that Duncan MacLeod had lived in this place, tangible reminders of the man she knew. In one, she found the leather case in which he kept the gold pocket watch Connor had given him that he seldom carried, but always kept close; underneath it was a small box of photographs, tied in a bundle with a faded ribbon and an engagement ring. Both the case and the box she put in her knapsack. In the other drawer she found an old leather-bound copy of the Iliad with dog-eared pages and a beautifully illustrated translation of the Mahabharata, similarly worn. For some reason the sight of the books was the hardest to take; she knelt beside the bed, looking at them in the drawer for a long minute, thinking of his broad, callused hands turning those well-worn pages. At last she took the books as well and got to her feet, knowing the time had come to get the hell out while the getting was good.

Heading for the lift, Amanda looked around one last time at the elegant, empty apartment, recognizing now the wrongness of it, the loneliness written in every line of its artfully designed starkness. How many times had she been in trouble, and been utterly certain that MacLeod wouldn't let her down? She wished she could believe the reverse was true, that he was alive somewhere, knowing his friends hadn't given up on him.

 _Oh, baby, hang in there. We're working on it._

She didn't let herself relax until she was in a taxi heading north, half a dozen blocks between her and that too-quiet apartment. Only then did she let herself glance in the cab's rear view mirror, though she knew it was an exercise in futility to try and spot a tail on Broadway in the middle of the afternoon. She gave up after half a minute and dialed Joe's number instead. He answered on the first ring.

"Just the lady I was hoping to hear from. You out of there?"

"Safe and sound and headed your way. Any news?"

"I found one of our MIAs."

"Which one?"

"Karloff. He's been in the pen for the last two months under the name Stanislofsky."

"I think we can safely cross him off the list, then. Anything else?"

"Nothing yet from our third musketeer. What about you?"

"I've got some of his files and things, but someone beat us to the punch. There wasn't much left to find."

She heard him sigh. "Well, we expected as much."

"Did you get the phone records? I think there might be something there, Joe."

"Got 'em right here in front of me. I'm working on addresses to go with the numbers. Come home, we'll compare notes. And you watch yourself, you hear me?"

Amanda closed her eyes for a moment, half in thanks, half in a fervent wish for some kind of break, something. "You, too," she said at last, and cut the connection.

* * *

The filtered, jewel-toned rays of sunlight lengthened by infinitesimal degrees, the afternoon waning as Methos waited, turning the puzzle box of questions over in his mind. In spite of the adrenaline working its way through his system, the cool shadows, the quiet calm of the church's interior, and the soft murmur of the fountain below began to work on him, and at last he leaned his forehead against the heels of his hands, rubbing his eyes, finding himself unexpectedly fighting to keep alert. It had been too many hours since his last dose of caffeine.

He glanced at his watch. He'd been waiting for well over two hours; only twenty minutes or so remained until the deadline he'd given on Salvatore's machine. If that plan didn't bear fruit, he would move on to the next name on Joe's list, and the next, until one of them turned into a lead.

The enormity of the task they'd set themselves threatened to overwhelm him, not for the first time that day. He fought it, fought to remember that the longest journey began with the first step, that MacLeod's attackers had already made mistakes and would likely make more. But the pragmatist in him knew they had to have a lead soon, if they were to have any chance at all of finding Mac alive.

Trying not to think about it, he pushed himself to his feet and went to the gallery railing, idly surveying the few parishioners below. He wondered if one of them might pray to their God for him if he asked. That fiftyish woman near the front, perhaps. She had a kind face. Of course, fifteen hundred years of prayer hadn't saved Darius from Horton, had it?

The buzz hit him then, a nerve-jarring thrum like a distant, oncoming train. Between one breath and the next, millennia-old reflexes shifted him out of his lethargy and straight into a state of alert readiness. His hand went to his sword by force of habit as he sought the source. Three men stood in the entranceway below.

He recognized the Spaniard immediately from the old photograph in the Watcher archives, but even if he hadn't, the two thugs he had with him fit the image of a drug lord's underlings. Salvatore himself was well-dressed, formidable-looking, with broad shoulders and well-manicured hands that looked like they knew how to choke the life out of a man. In the few moments before Salvatore looked up towards the gallery, Methos recognized the cool, controlled nature of the man, the calculating intelligence and exaggerated confidence. It was a combination he had encountered before, many times.

Salvatore located him then, the blue eyes barely flickering as they came to rest on Methos, sizing him up just as quickly. Methos projected 'harmless' for all he was worth, a skill long-perfected. He inclined his head towards the stairs that led up from the front of the church. Salvatore regarded him for a long minute, then said something to one of his men, never taking his eyes off Methos. The three of them went back out into the entrance hall; a moment later, Methos heard them coming up the stairs.

He drew a deep breath, let it out. It was all he had time for. Salvatore came into the gallery with his two bodyguards flanking him, none of them bothering to draw a weapon. Without a word, the bigger of the two came up to Methos and swept him with a wallet-sized bug detector while the other started a sweep of the gallery. "I told you to come alone," Methos said, stepping away when the thug made as if to search him. He kept his voice low.

Salvatore shrugged. "A businessman can't be too careful."

The big _bruto_ was scarred, an old knife cut straight across his broad nose; his body odor was strong, unpleasant. He kept coming, looking as though it would make his day if Methos tried to make trouble.

"Call him off," Methos insisted, "or we have nothing to talk about."

"Chino," Salvatore said lazily, waving a hand. _"Bastante._ He's clean?"

"Yeah," Chino agreed reluctantly, but subsided along with his compadre. The two of them stood on either side of the stairwell doorway. Salvatore came closer, studying Methos's face.

"Who are you? I've never seen you before."

Methos shrugged. "It's a big world."

The blue eyes narrowed slightly, and Methos could believe all too easily that this man had been an Inquisitor. That look chilled him down to the bone. After a moment the Spaniard turned and paced a few steps away, laying a hand on the gallery railing and surveying the church with an air of ownership, as though remembering his long ago days of glory. "So what is it that you have to tell me," he said at last, "that I'm going to find 'invaluable?'"

"I think maybe you've seen them," Methos said. "Men with short lifelines? They wear tattoos." At that, Salvatore's head came up sharply. "Here," Methos added, showing his wrist, bare now as it had been for three years.

Salvatore's face was still impassive, but tension was visible now in the grip of his hand on the polished railing. He'd gone very still. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said evenly.

"Really?" Methos played his trump card. "Three years ago you killed two of them."

That got his attention. All pretense of casual gentility had left the Spaniard's manner, his gaze steely, looking at Methos with new malice, the lightning-fast, calculating thought visible in his expression. He looked as though Methos had taken several large steps closer to his own immediate demise. "One in the alley behind your own club, I believe," Methos said before Salvatore could set his dogs on him. "If I'm not mistaken, you threw her body in the East River."

Salvatore's jaw set; in a second, cold fury had replaced his cool superiority. "Who the fuck are you?" he said softly.

Methos knew it was touch and go whether the other Immortal might come for him right then and there, holy ground, or not. He glanced quickly at the two bodyguards. "I don't really think we need an audience for this conversation, do you?"

As if remembering only then that they had one, and that they were still in a church, Salvatore checked himself. He jerked his head once towards his underlings and ordered them out. When Chino hesitated, Salvatore turned on him and hissed, _"Afuera!"_ and he went.

It was all the chance Methos needed. When he turned back, Methos was ready for him, the pistol already in his hand.

For an instant, disbelief and outrage warred in Salvatore's expression. Before he could move or make a sound to call his men back, Methos had taken a step forward, placing himself between Salvatore and the gallery railing, the silencer on the gun's long muzzle gleaming in the shadows. "I'd think again if I were you," he murmured, making it clear that if Salvatore's men returned, they'd find a corpse. And a corpse meant witnesses. Police.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me," Methos said implacably. He'd gone past fear into a clear space of detachment, a feeling of coiled, focused power that he remembered in his bones. Beneath it, the rage he'd kept buried for two days rested cold and sharp within him like a hidden blade.

Salvatore laughed quietly, impressive in his lack of visible concern, but he seemed to have lost some of his earlier confidence. "I don't know where you think you are, _hijo,_ but you're a fool if you think you'll get two blocks when you leave this place."

"Oh, I don't know," Methos countered. "Think about it. If we know about your extracurricular activities three years ago, what else do we know about you? You've got a nice thing going here, Victor. I don't think you want to mess it up."

For a long moment, Methos thought Salvatore's fury would win out. It looked like he'd gambled well, though; the man was no fool. With a look that promised he'd pay dearly for his presumption, Salvatore subsided. "What do you want?" he said at last.

"I'm looking for someone. I thought maybe you'd know something about it."

"I know many things," Salvatore said, the look of calculation returning. "You are looking for one of us?"

"How about we start with where you were night before last?"

Salvatore made a derisive sound. "And how will you know if I tell you the truth?"

"Just answer the question," Methos said softly, and there was cold satisfaction to be had in knowing that the old fell rider within him could still be called upon when needed. Salvatore's open contempt dimmed a fraction.

"Well, that is easy enough to find out. I was at the club."

"All night? You met no one?"

"Yes, all night. A hundred people can tell you that. Give me a name, and perhaps I will know something, but don't waste my time." Methos said nothing, waiting, and under the force of his intensity beads of moisture gathered at the Spaniard's hairline, betraying him. "What is this about?"

"MacLeod," Methos said at last, watching him carefully.

Either Salvatore had been an actor in a previous incarnation, or that name was the last one he expected to hear. He looked at Methos as if it might be a trick question, or some sort of joke. "MacLeod's been dead for years. What makes you think I had anything to do with it?"

For a moment the words washed over Methos like a cold wave breaking, and _MacLeod_ and _dead_ were all that registered. A stillness closed down around him, his heart thudding heavily, blood rushing in his ears. Then the rest of what Salvatore had said connected, and he remembered that Connor had lived in New York for years before he'd dropped out of sight. Of course Salvatore would know the name—and have no way of knowing that Connor MacLeod was still alive, locked in a self-imposed prison of drugged oblivion not far upstate.

"Not Connor," he said, hearing his own voice as if it were a stranger's, the heat that flooded him at the belated realization threatening to overwhelm him. It took all the control he possessed to keep the relief from showing. "His kinsman."

Salvatore laughed. "That _puto_ still alive?" He shook his head. "The last time I saw him, Herbert Hoover was president."

It carried the ring of truth, but to be sure, Methos stepped in close and brought the 9mm up under the other Immortal's jaw, relishing the spark of satisfaction he felt at the way Salvatore's nostrils flared and his eyes widened fractionally, the scent of fear barely perceptible. The long rays of sunlight had reached almost all the way across the gallery. At any moment, one of the parishioners might look up and see them—or Salvatore's men might get impatient. He was almost certain now that this had been a dead end; time to get what he'd come for and get the hell out of Dodge. "I'd think carefully about this," he said, emphasizing each word. "Because my friends and I know more about you than you can imagine, and if you had anything to do with what's happened to MacLeod, killing me won't save you. Now. You sure there isn't anything you want to tell me?"

"I don't know anything about your friend," Salvatore said softly, tense against the pressure of the gun at his throat, "What I do know is that you are not going to live long enough to worry about anyone else, _marricon._ You are a dead man."

"Aren't we all," Methos said. And smiling slightly, he lowered the pistol and shot him cleanly through the heart. Salvatore barely had time to be surprised.

Methos caught the Spaniard's dead weight and eased it down onto the pew behind him, managing to avoid getting blood on his coat. Downstairs, the front doors opened, bringing in a wash of traffic noise from the street outside. He glanced over the railing but couldn't see Salvatore's bodyguards, which probably meant they were still at the foot of the stairs on this side of the front entryway; the stairwell at the far side of the church, the door of which was visible beyond the white stone fountain, was unguarded. Methos slipped the pistol into his coat. It would probably take Salvatore several minutes to revive at least. With luck, he'd be long gone by then.

The second floor gallery wrapped around three sides of the church, and he crossed quietly to the opposite stairwell. Still no one had seemed to notice what was going on twenty feet above their heads. But at the bottom of the stairs, his luck ran out. His friend Chino stood some twenty feet away, looking right at him.

Methos didn't stick around to see what he'd do, just sprinted for the door. Two women were coming in; Methos shot past them and ran down the steps, hearing their cries of alarm as Salvatore's thugs came after him. He didn't stop to look back.

At the bottom of the steps he didn't slow his pace, but plunged out into the traffic on 106th, barely skating past the front bumper of a conversion van. He heard the squeal of tires, made it into the eastbound lanes, dodged a delivery truck and leapt over the bumpers of two parked cars. He veered right, and pounded down the wide sidewalk, half-expecting to feel the hot smack of a bullet taking him down from behind. Risking a glance over his shoulder as he reached the corner, he got a glimpse of Chino's ugly, scarred face some distance back, the gleam of something metallic and deadly-looking in his hand. Then he turned south and began to run in earnest.

He didn't stop until he was on the crowded southbound train, sweaty, breathless, a nasty bruise forming on his ribs where the hilt of his sword had knocked into him as he ran. The hammering of his heart didn't slow for another three stations, and it was only then that he let himself think about the risks he'd taken and how close he'd come to getting himself shot, arrested, or worse. And for what? He was no closer to finding answers, and he'd made himself a dangerous enemy. Small comfort that Salvatore didn't know his name. He knew he was a friend of Mac's, and Mac was not exactly hard to find.

Belatedly, the irony of that registered, and he found himself fighting a wave of hysterical laughter. Under it stirred something dangerous, something he couldn't afford, and so he clamped down hard on the impulse, pressing his forehead momentarily against the soft folds of his sleeve, hiding his face against the arm he was using to brace himself against the rocking of the train. Without warning, heat welled over him, nothing like the urge to laugh, and for a moment it nearly overwhelmed him; he kept his face hidden and forced himself to take deep breaths, fighting it. Christ, he had to get it together. This wasn't going to help Mac, or any of them. Whatever else, he'd narrowed down their field of targets, he had to remember that. Sooner or later, something had to shake loose. They just had to keep at it until something did.

Turning his thoughts to the present with an effort, he realized that he'd just taken the train that had been waiting at the platform—hadn't even noticed which line it was. He pulled the creased sheaf of printouts out of his coat, forcing himself to shut away the dark thoughts and focus on the hours ahead.


	8. Chapter 8

**_3:55 p.m._ **

Joe Dawson sincerely hoped he would never have to explain to MacLeod exactly how he'd managed to get his hands on both Mac's home phone and cell phone records in a matter of hours. They had enough trouble negotiating the treacherous middle ground between Watcher and Immortal as it was. Some things Mac didn't need to know.

For a Watcher of his experience, a set of phone records was as good as a gold passkey. By the time Amanda rang from downstairs, he'd already made considerable progress towards a working list of names and addresses to go with the calls from Mac's home phone. He glanced at the time and judged that he might be able to get a few more before five o'clock if they hustled.

In the not-so-good news department, the latest report from the Watchers he'd put on the MIAs had come in about ten minutes before. They'd managed to narrow the field by another three names, but there were still eleven Immortals on the list. Even his best-case scenario told him it would take at least two or three more days to find them all, if they could be found, and piecing together any connection to Mac's disappearance would take yet more time. The list of numbers and addresses he'd generated that afternoon was beginning to look like their best bet for something to shake loose.

He buzzed Amanda up, shut down the laptop and put it into its case, and made a final circuit of the apartment. He had the feeling that he wouldn't be seeing these rooms again.

Moving a bit more stiffly than usual, he went to let Amanda in. Her quick once-over held more than a little sympathy, and he figured he must look about like he felt, which was to say like the rough end of a four-day bender. "Ready?" she said brightly, picking up the case that held laptop and files and hoisting his duffel over one shoulder, sparing him the solicitous questions they didn't have time for anyway.

"As I'll ever be."

In the cab he tried to reach Methos, but was informed in condescending tones that the caller he was trying to reach was currently unavailable. Amanda raised her eyebrows; he shook his head wordlessly and put the phone away.

"He'll call," she said, sounding confident. "He's a big boy, he can take care of himself."

"Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you?"

The drive was barely over six blocks, but the traffic moved at a torpid crawl. The late afternoon sun slanted in through the windows and put the lie to the crisp afternoon, the temporary heat soothing against the dull, throbbing ache that had taken up residence in Joe's shoulder. He longed to close his eyes and rest his head against the cracked vinyl seat. He'd cut back to half-doses on the painkillers, but he was only delaying the inevitable; he'd slept barely four hours in the last forty-eight, and he was going to have to crash sooner or later.

"Bad?" Amanda asked gently.

"It'll keep." He rubbed his hands over his face and made himself focus, pushing himself up a little straighter. "We need to regroup, go over everything we've got and make a plan. Time to get our heads in the game, all of us."

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking Mac knew he was in trouble, is what I'm thinking, and nobody knows Mac better than the three of us. I'm thinking we should be concentrating on what we know."

Amanda spread her hands. "I'm open to suggestions."

"Mac knew he was being followed at least four days before he drove into that parking garage. Whatever went down, he didn't go in blind, and I'm willing to bet that in those four days, he put together a pretty good picture of who or what he was dealing with. So -- we follow his lead. Trace his steps. Put our heads together and figure out what the hell he thought he was doing that night."

"You're saying we've been going at this from the wrong direction."

"Maybe." At least, he hoped so. Otherwise, the odds were against them ever finding out the truth.

"You think we're running out of time, don't you?" Amanda said quietly, matter-of-fact.

Intuition had been nagging him on that point all day, but he pushed it away. "I've got a hunch the answers are right in front of us, if we can just figure out where to look."

"May all your hunches be right."

They were alongside the park now, sun dappling the sidewalks through the pale spring leaves, and he found his attention drawn to the figure of a jogger turning in at the park gate, a guy he'd registered out of the corner of his eye. Gray sweatshirt, faded blue shorts, white sneakers. It was the hair, he realized a second later, that had caught his eye. Lighter, more chestnut than sable, pulled back into a ponytail. Mac had cut his hair years ago, and there was no real resemblance, but for a moment it had been enough to make his heart miss its rhythm for a couple of beats.

He felt Amanda's hand against the back of his, squeezing once. She wore black leather gloves, and her hand was cool and smooth, stronger than he expected -- though why he should have been surprised by that, he didn't know. Nothing about Immortals should surprise him after all these years.

"He would hate this, you know," Amanda said after a while.

"What's that?"

"He'd be furious if he knew we were sticking our necks out for him."

Joe smiled a little in spite of himself. "Yeah. Remember how pissed he was over O'Rourke?"

Amanda smiled too, remembering. "Remember how he was over Kalas?"

"I do seem to recall he was a little ticked at you at the time."

"Ticked? Oh, Joe, you should have seen him when I told him I'd broken Kalas out of jail. I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel or something."

"You gotta admit it wasn't one of the brightest ideas you ever came up with."

"I meant well," she protested. "My heart was in the right place."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, anyway, it turned out all right." She patted his hand and sat back in her seat as the cab pulled in at the hotel drive. "We're rescuing him, and that's all there is to it -- he's going to have to deal with it."

"I'll be sure and tell him you said that," he said, leaning over to get a gander at the entrance to New York's grande dame of hotels. "You sure you want to stay here, darlin'? I'm sure we could find someplace with cable TV if we keep going to the next exit."

"Best I could do on short notice," she said with a sigh, and before he could tell whether she was joking, the doorman was helping her out of the car.

The hotel lobby was cool after the afternoon sun, its vast, gilt elegance evoking the era of a past century. It was easy to imagine you had stepped back in time a hundred years or so, that carriages waited outside instead of limousines -- Mac had been living in New York then, too, he remembered, perhaps even in this very hotel at one time or another. The thought lifted his spirits a little.

Amanda checked them into a two-bedroom suite under an alias he'd never heard before, flashing a sidelong, impish grin at him as she signed the registration form. "You boys don't mind sharing, do you?"

"I don't know, does he snore?"

"Joe!" She shot him a scandalized look as they started towards the elevators, but her eyes sparkled too much to make it convincing. "As if I'd tell you, you old voyeur."

He grinned what passed for an apology. "Sorry, force of habit."

"Can't blame a guy for trying?"

"That's the theory."

"Careful, Joe, I'll start to think Nick's right about you."

"Oh, ho, ouch. All right, I'll be good." The doors closed, and they started up, his momentary lift in spirits receding at the mention of Wolfe. "He's not still pissed about what happened in Toronto, is he?"

She winced. "Maybe a little?"

"It's you he should be mad at. You're the one who got the bright idea of letting him think you were dead. I was just the lucky guy you picked to give him the news."

"Well, you know what they say about shooting the messenger."

"So, I'm even higher on his list of favorite people now, that what you're saying?" She gave a little, helpless shrug, as if to say, what can you do? He scowled. "I was kinda hoping he might be inclined to give us a hand."

She shook her head firmly. "Nick is staying as far away from this as I can keep him. But anything you need him for, I can do you one better -- I went to see Bert Myers before I left Paris, and he agreed to help if we need him."

"Myers! Why didn't you say so?"

"Because I prefer not to call in that particular favor unless I have to. At least not until we have some idea what we're dealing with."

He arched his brows, hearing what she didn't say. "You're getting awfully sentimental these days."

"Tell me about it. Anyway, he said he'd put his ear to the ground and let me know if anything comes up related to a car bombing at JFK, and I told him to be careful about leaving fingerprints until we have some idea who's behind this."

The elevator doors opened on their floor. Letting Amanda lead the way, Joe indulged himself in a fleeting fantasy of somehow winning an ex-NSA operative over to the Watchers. It lasted about two seconds before he reluctantly admitted it was a monumentally stupid idea. From what he knew of Myers, he trusted him about as far as he could throw him, and Amanda would have him for breakfast if he so much as batted an eyelash Myers' direction anyway. She was right, even bringing him in on their current situation carried a healthy amount of risk -- they'd better think twice before asking him for any more favors, and not just because Amanda had developed a soft spot for the guy. Still, it was good to know the option was there if Joe's usual resources failed them.

"Hey, does Nick know you went to see Myers before you left?"

Amanda had reached the door to their suite, and busied herself with the key card. "No, and I'd like to keep it that way," she said lightly, then shot Joe a glance that was half persuasion, half warning. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him, right?"

He laid a hand on her arm as she opened the door. "You know, one of these days he's gonna get sick of you protecting him. Trust me, I know -- sooner or later these things come out, and eventually it'll be one lie too many."

She tilted her head with a little smile. "Now, I wonder what MacLeod would say if he knew you were lecturing me on keeping secrets?"

"Then consider it the voice of experience," he insisted. He and Mac had made their peace, and he could see too clearly the path Amanda and Wolfe were on. God knew he'd seen Mac and Methos go through it enough times.

She met his gaze frankly, her expression softening. "Roger, Houston, I read you. Message received, all right? Now, can we go in?"

The contrast between the posh suite and his apartment was a sharp reminder to Joe that he was the reason they were changing venues. A part of him might resent the implication that he couldn't take care of himself, but he'd been around Immortals too long for it to last. What the hell. He wasn't in the mood to get shot again, and pragmatism had always made a better companion than pride anyway.

He wasted no time hooking up his laptop, then called to check in with Macklin. His old friend had little new to report, but Joe hadn't expected much to have changed in two hours. Remembering Stacey Rosenthal and the other Watchers who had died because of his carelessness in hunting Ahriman, he cautioned Macklin to play it safe and then some. Alec assured him he would, and they hung up; no sooner did he end the call than his phone rang.

"Dawson."

"Joe, it's me." Methos sounded short-winded, traffic noise audible in the background. "Anything?"

"Making progress. I've got his phone records, and we're working on an address list. Amanda's back from Mac's place, and we're about to go over what we've got. You coming in?"

"Not yet. I've got some more social calls to pay first."

Amanda reappeared in the doorway, listening. He looked up and she pointed at the phone and made a 'come here' gesture. He nodded. "Listen, I'm not wild about the idea of you chasing these guys down on your own. Amanda and I have been talking, and I think we've been going about this the wrong way. I think we oughtta regroup and apply some collective brain power to this thing."

"You're thinking we should trace MacLeod's steps. Try to figure out what the hell he was doing in that car park."

"Exactly."

"I've been thinking about that, too -- but you two don't need me for that. Better we cover twice the ground, and you call me when you've come up with something."

Joe didn't like it, but if there was one son of a bitch on the planet more stubborn than Duncan MacLeod, it was Methos. "Well, you can cross Colehaven and Jacob Kell off your list. We confirmed that Colehaven's in Singapore and has been since last Wednesday, and we're pretty sure Kell took Jozef Novak's head Sunday night, in Prague."

"Rats, and I was looking forward to paying Colehaven back for the last time we crossed paths. You can mark off Salvatore, too. He's still among the living, I'm afraid, but he doesn't know anything about MacLeod."

Amanda, having guessed the other half of the conversation, came over and tugged the phone out of his hand.

"Methos, let me meet you somewhere. We can work together." A pause. "Come on, we'll be like Butch and Sundance. Batman and Catwoman. Well, you know what I mean." She listened to what was plainly not agreement from the other end of the phone. "As backup, then. You know I'm good, Methos. It makes sense." Getting no joy, she shot Joe a _can you believe this?_ expression, then spread her free hand in a gesture of defeat. "Fine, have it your way, but don't come complaining to me when you end up with a whole closet full of hats and nowhere to put them." She handed the phone back to Joe. "I give up, he's being more of a pain in the ass than usual."

"Tell her I heard that," Methos said when Joe put the phone back to his ear.

"The lady does have a point, you know."

"Gotta go, Joe. I'll see you in a few hours." The line went dead.

Joe pressed the button, and set the phone aside. "I sincerely hope so, buddy."

Amanda made a face, then sighed and inclined her head toward the living room. "You ready to powwow?"

He glanced at the clock on the laptop. "Actually, I wanted to see if I could track down addresses for a few more of these numbers. Why don't you order us up some coffee and take it easy for about half an hour?"

She called down for room service as he got to work, then disappeared into the bathroom, emerging fresh from the shower and changed in time to meet the knock at the door. Joe had barely registered the fact that she'd ordered food as well as coffee -- he'd long since lost track of how long it had been since he'd eaten anything substantial -- but the smell of eggs, cheese and bacon made his mouth water.

Amanda supervised the arrangement of plates and place settings in the sitting area while he made his way over. His stomach was growling loudly by the time the waiter left and they sat down.

"Is this okay? According to my clock, it's closer to breakfast than dinner."

"It's great. I think I forget what real food tastes like, but this smells wonderful." He poured coffee for both of them and dug in, finding that it tasted as good as it smelled.

"So," she said, stirring sugar into her coffee, "I had a thought while I was in the shower. I was thinking about what you said -- about MacLeod knowing what he was getting into. Maybe it's a long shot, I don't know, but what if he didn't go to that garage to challenge somebody? What if he went there to meet a friend, and something went wrong?"

"But he went out of his way to keep his friends out of it."

"As far as we know. But think about it, Joe. He and Methos haven't exactly been joined at the hip lately. You'd already been shot once -- of course he wasn't going to risk you. But maybe he didn't think he could handle it on his own, and called somebody else. Maybe that's who's lying in the morgue."

He grimaced. "The problem with that theory is that I've got Watchers on most of the Immortals MacLeod's friendly with. If anybody was missing, they'd be on our list."

"I know it's a long shot, but it's possible, isn't it?"

"If you want to consider a long shot in the dark possible, then yeah, I guess it's possible. But who would he ask for help, if not one of us?"

"Look, I don't know. Duncan and I haven't exactly been in each other's pockets, either." She sighed. "I know I'm reaching, but I think maybe we've been too quick to make assumptions."

"Well, I'm with you there." Joe finished the last of his omelet and washed it down with fresh orange juice, feeling considerably better than he had half an hour ago. "I swear, if I hadn't seen Horton dead with my own eyes, I'd say this sounds like his kind of mind games."

"What about one of his protégés, then?"

Joe shook his head. "We thought about that, but it doesn't fit. Watchers would know they wouldn't find anything at my place. It's against policy these days to keep records in an unsecured location -- the guys who broke into my place didn't know that. And besides, any protégé of Horton's wouldn't have left me still breathing."

They both fell silent, thinking. "They found you pretty quick," Amanda said at last, considering. "That's got to mean some heavy duty information access and organization. If the Watchers are out, who else would have that capability? What was it, two hours from when Mac called you to when they showed up at your apartment?"

"Give or take."

She shook her head after a moment, dismissing it. "Trouble is, that could be almost anybody these days. CIA, NSA, some independent operator with more money than the Queen -- hell, Myers could probably manage it if he put his mind to it." She rose abruptly and started clearing away the plates a little more vigorously than necessary. "I hate this, Joe. I hate that we're in the dark, with nothing to go on -- I want to be doing something!"

"I'm with you, darlin', but we gotta be patient. Let my people do their thing -- sooner or later something'll break loose. You have to trust me on this."

"I know. You're right. You're right!" She abandoned the dishes and went to look out the window, hugging her arms around herself as if to contain the nervous energy that had seized her. "We can figure this out. We've got to think like him, that's all."

Joe pushed himself to his feet, heading back to his computer. "I'm gonna do some correlating, make sure we haven't missed anything. I put all our notes into database format, and I've been running keyword searches on all my files to flesh it out. I've even got his unabridged chronicles on there -- it'll take me a while to sort through the results, but maybe something will turn up."

Amanda's hand on his stopped him. The late afternoon sun streamed over her shoulders, lighting up the pale shimmer of her hair. "Joe, you're exhausted. You've barely slept in two days, and that shoulder isn't close to healed yet. Go lie down for an hour, you won't regret it."

The affection in her eyes felt like an embrace, and he leaned into her almost without realizing it, weariness suddenly dragging at him. "Amanda, if I lie down, I don't think I'll be getting up any time soon."

She smiled, and he renewed his opinion on the selling of souls. "Don't worry, I won't let you sleep too long."

Suspicion dawned. "You put one of those damn pain pills in the juice, didn't you?"

She gave her best injured look. "Would I do something like that?"

"Nice try, Amanda." But now that the idea was sown, he could feel the bed calling him like a lover. "You just want the chance to poke around in his chronicles."

She wrinkled her nose. "I don't think so. I might find things about me in there. I read one of mine once -- it was like reading a stalker diary or something. Hey, kidding! Look, I promise, I'll be good."

"And you'll wake me up in an hour."

"Cross my heart."

"And stick close to the phone."

"Joe. Trust me, okay?"

Stronger men than Joe Dawson had succumbed to Amanda Darrieux's charms, and in the end he let himself be persuaded.

* * *

It took the last of his strength to unstrap his prosthetics and pull off his shirt, and sleep pulled him down fast, but in the last minutes before it claimed him, his thoughts turned back to something Amanda had said. _Think like Mac._ If anybody should be able to do that, it was him, right? After twenty years, it should be easy.

Exhausted, wired on adrenaline, his mind circled while the shadows lengthened across the bed. What exactly had Mac said to him on the phone that day? He pushed himself to remember. They'd seen each other for dinner the night before, and Joe had been surprised to hear from him. Mac had sounded funny when he'd called, too, like he was relieved to hear Joe's voice. He'd said something half-joking about Joe getting bored with his work, and Joe had laughed, joking, too... _Yeah, right. That's the trouble with you, Mac, never anything interesting going on in your life._

And Mac had told him to be careful what he wished for. He remembered that, remembered his own fervent agreement. _Amen to that. I'm starting to get used to having you around again._

 _That makes two of us,_ Mac had said, and then hesitated, as if debating saying anything more. _So you don't have anybody else watching my place right now?_

 _No, not my people, not since you came back to the States. Listen, if you've got trouble--_

 __But Mac had laughed it off, and been convincing enough that Joe had let it go, teasing him about getting paranoid in his old age. They'd made plans to meet again for dinner, and it was so good to think that their lives were finally getting back to normal, that they were still friends after everything they'd been through, Joe hadn't pressed him about the other thing, the reason he'd called.

 _So you don't have anybody else watching my place right now?_

 __Maybe if he'd come home ten minutes later, if he hadn't gotten shot, things would have been different. Maybe Mac would have told him what was going on. But of course, all the maybes in the world wouldn't help them now.

 _No, not my people, not since you came back..._

He was too tired to focus any more, and he finally let sleep drag him under. His last coherent thought was _wonder how many times Mac's fallen for that 'trust me' line over the years?_

He slept.


	9. Chapter 9

**_7:35 p.m._ **

The sky was turning indigo over the East River, the setting sun reflecting gold against the chop of the waves as ant-sized cars wound their way along FDR Drive. Methos stood at the glass doors some thirty stories above, watching the winking headlights and debating his next move.

Clauberg's computer had yielded to him easily enough, but the hidden safe had thwarted him, and now he had to decide whether to make a clean exit, or wait to ambush his quarry in hopes of forcing information out of him. Given the bastard's history, it seemed extremely unlikely that he'd succumb to coercion—at least not without time Methos could ill afford.

Damn Amanda. He certainly could have used her talents now, though he had no intention of telling her that.

It probably didn't matter anyway, he admitted. He'd found nothing to connect the guy to MacLeod beyond that brief mention in the Watcher archives from 1943; chances seemed slim that there was anything more to it than same time, same place. Even a desperate man would have to conclude the risk wasn't worth the vanishingly small chance that there was anything more to learn here.

Decision made, he retrieved the backup disks he'd made of Clauberg's documents and went to check on the girlfriend. He'd gotten tired of listening to the woman's complaining and had finally shut her up in the bedroom, bound to the bed and gagged with a pair of her own stockings; it had been almost half an hour, though, and he supposed he'd better look in on her before he made himself scarce.

The time alone had done nothing to cool her ire, and she was still spitting mad, blue eyes shooting daggers when he came into the bedroom. He wasn't without sympathy, but she was the least of his problems. Ignoring the murderous glare, he went to the bathroom and filled a plastic cup with water, bringing it back into the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he loosened the gag and offered her the cup. Not surprisingly, she used the opportunity to call him several more foul names. He simply gazed at her impassively until she ran out of steam.

"We finished?" he said mildly.

"You are a dead man, you know that, don't you?"

"So I've heard." He offered her the cup again. She spat in his face, and tried to knock it out of his hand.

"You are making a big mistake, asshole." Her Austrian accent gave the threat a rather unintentionally charming lilt, and he had to admire her flair for the dramatic.

"Suit yourself." He shrugged and reached for the gag.

"Go fuck yourself," she spat, before he forced the nylon between her teeth. He didn't bother answering, just left her to stew in her own impotent fury, heading for the door. He'd already been there too long.

He made for the emergency stairwell at the end of the hall, feeling as though he'd reached some measure of calm for the first time in days, realizing only then how thin the veneer of his control had been. With the determination of a reformed alcoholic, he'd long ago adopted the habit of avoiding temptation until his aversion to violence had become almost a conditioned response. But ever since he'd picked up the phone and heard Joe Dawson's voice on the other end, the internal fight against belief, against the deep well of memory and hopes he'd denied for too long, had been burning up his resources, and the old craving was strong in him now, dangerously close to the surface. He'd been giving it rein, knowing he would need that fire before this was over, but it had come dangerously close to overtaking him. What he needed most now was a sharp eye and a clear head.

A few minutes later he stepped out into the alley behind Clauberg's building, scanning his surroundings before making for the street. His instincts had always been enough to keep him alive, but Kronos had been right when he said Methos had gotten soft. Staying alive wasn't enough any more. He'd made a lot of mistakes these last few years, most of them with MacLeod, but they couldn't afford mistakes now, not if he wanted the chance to tell Mac—

The buzz hit with a rush that made the hair on his arms stand on end, made the bottom drop out of his stomach. Shit. Clauberg. There, in the Mercedes, going into the car park at the corner of the building. Heart racing, adrenaline flushing his system, Methos found his pistol in his coat and clicked the safety off, then drew his sword, keeping close to the wall, out of the line of fire. For a second he thought he might be able to make it past Clauberg's car and out into the street, but the other Immortal had seen him, and reversed down the ramp with a squeal of tires, blocking his path.

Methos wasted no time on formalities. He rushed the car, striking the driver's side door with the force of his body and knocking Clauberg back as he climbed out. With momentum on his side, Methos gave the door another shove, slamming it on Clauberg's arm and forcing him to drop his blade, then pushing his way past it to seize the former Nazi by the throat, pressing him back against the wall and squeezing hard enough to cut off his breathing. He brought his sword around and laid the broad blade against Clauberg's collarbone.

Clauberg struggled, but Methos leaned into the other man's body and kept twisting his fingers into the guy's throat until his captive grunted and went still against him. He could feel the snarl that twisted his own face.

"I know who you are, and I've got no compunctions about killing you. We understand each other?"

But the bastard was still fighting him, bringing his other hand up between them—and the _snick_ of the hidden blade registered too late.

Pain exploded scarlet bright in his groin, and Methos was going down before he even knew what had struck him, going down in a brilliant cascade of sudden, breathless agony. Clauberg wrenched free of his hold. He couldn't see—sparkles of pain colored his vision red. A knife. He'd had some kind of knife— _fuck._ Clauberg was moving. The scent of his own blood filled his senses. Femoral artery, he thought numbly.

"Who the _hell_ do you think you are?" Clauberg snarled. The sound of scraping steel underlined his outrage. Somehow, Methos retained the presence of mind to get a shot off; it was nearly the last thing he heard before the pain and the darkness pulled him down.

The last thing was Duncan's voice yelling at him, telling him to get up, get up and fight, if he wanted to live.

* * *

 **_Plaza Hotel  
11:05 p.m._ **

Not for the first time, Joe Dawson coveted the ability to pace. Amanda had not merely failed to wake him after an hour, she had failed to wake him at all, and he'd finally stirred groggily half an hour ago, only to realize that she was gone. Why he was surprised, he didn't know.

The note she'd left didn't give a time, or tell him anything beyond _Don't worry - be back soon._ Don't worry—that was a laugh. He'd called the front desk and found out that the doorman remembered a woman of Amanda's description getting into a cab around seven-thirty, but he hadn't heard where she was going. Her phone was off, and Methos was three hours overdue. Worried didn't begin to cover it.

There was, however, absolutely nothing he could do until one of them decided to get in touch with him, and no matter how much he wished he could knock their fool heads together, he still had his own job to do. So, fine, he'd damn well do it. He splashed some cold water on his face, changed into a clean shirt, and went back to work on his database.

He still had one number unaccounted for from Mac's cell phone records—a blocked government number in the Manhattan area code that Macklin's people had determined was no longer in service. Mac had called the number twice: last Friday afternoon, and again on Sunday evening. Joe had a pretty strong hunch the second call was the one that precipitated the meet at the airport.

Rubbing his chin, Joe thought about that for a minute, then turned to the stack of files and books Amanda had brought from Mac's place, flipping through them, looking for phone lists, handwritten notes, anything. He didn't really expect to find the number he was looking for; he was just covering his bases, letting the facts sort and rearrange themselves in his head as he flipped through the papers. A blocked government number could mean anything, but something was pinging in the back of his head, some leap of insight that hadn't quite come to fruition.

The sound of a key card in the lock broke his train of thought. The door opened and Amanda appeared, dressed in black from her neck to her toes, a jaunty black beret pulled down over her hair.

Her eyes fell on him, and they both started speaking at once.

"Joe, I can explain—"

"Well, it's about damn time—"

Amanda stopped mid-protest, closed her mouth, and made an 'all right, let me have it' gesture. Joe, furious now that his fear had partly abated, was only too happy to oblige.

"Where the hell have you been? Do you have any idea what's been going through my head?"

"I know. I'm sorry."

"What happened to us working together, trusting each other? I knew I should have known better than to trust you!"

"Joe, you're overreacting! I had everything under control. I'm okay, all right?"

She spread her hands as if to say, 'look, still here!' and it made things worse. She'd been around so long she thought she could sneak or wriggle or charm her way out of anything, but he'd seen how little experience mattered, how easily the best and the wiliest of them could fall. Furious with her for refusing to see that, he snapped, "You know, it's a miracle MacLeod's never killed you. I bet you do this to him all the time."

Amanda's expression barely changed, but the light went out of her eyes, and he knew he'd crossed the line. They faced each other down, both angry now, though she hid it a lot better than he did. Only the tight lines around her mouth betrayed her.

Belatedly, his relief caught up with his worry; it didn't make him any less angry with her, but it made him ashamed of using MacLeod to hurt her. He was the first to look away. "Look, forget I said that. What was so important, anyway? Where'd you go?"

The set of her shoulders eased, and she came into the living room, pulling her gloves off, then the beret, fluffing her hair with her fingers. She tossed the gloves and hat onto the couch along with her suspiciously heavy knapsack and went to get a bottle of water from the minibar.

"I went back to MacLeod's. I wanted to do some more snooping, check out the rest of the building. See if I could spot anybody sniffing around." She stopped with the bottle of water halfway to her lips and glanced around the suite, a little frown creasing her brow. "Where's Methos?"

"Beats the hell outta me. I haven't heard from him."

"He hasn't called in?"

"Not in the last five hours." He scowled. "Between the two of you, I'm liable to have a nervous breakdown before this is over."

"Hey, I said I was sorry, what more do you want?"

"Yeah." Joe glared at her a second longer, then let it go. He still wasn't happy about her skipping out on him, but they had more important things to think about. "What'd you find at Mac's place, anything?"

"Somebody's watching it, that's for sure. Somebody who knows what he's doing. It wasn't easy slipping under the radar, even for me." She glanced at him. "You want the short version, or the long one?"

"How about you start from the beginning?" He smiled, without much humor. "Looks like it's gonna be a long night."

* * *

While Joe made a pot of coffee, Amanda gave him the full account of her second visit to SoHo that day.

She'd gone in from the roof of a neighboring building, and the first thing she'd spotted was evidence of forced entry at one of the fourth story windows. Further investigation revealed an entry detection perimeter designed to trigger no fewer than fifteen cameras secreted in various spots. Knowing there might be a hard-wired secondary system, she'd disabled the entry system and the motion detectors, done a quick recon, then spent thirty minutes in concealment on the roof, watching the street to see if she'd tripped any proverbial wires.

Satisfied that the coast was clear, she'd gone back down and checked out the rest of the building, finding nothing of interest on the first three floors; on the fourth she found the faint traces of footprints in the fine layer of dust below the window they'd used for entry. How long they'd been there, she couldn't say, but it looked like more than one person had gotten in that way.

"I swear, Joe, you'd think it was Fort Knox, the number of cameras they had stashed around in there. I don't know who they were expecting, but that place was wired by a pro."

"Well, I guess they weren't expecting you."

"They hardly ever do," she said with a grin. Nothing like a challenge to get her juices going—she was still jazzed on adrenaline, itching to go find something shiny that needed liberating. Old habits died hard. "Oh, but I haven't gotten to the best part yet. So, I checked out the rest of the fourth floor, and made another pass through the loft upstairs. I went through his closet, looking for scraps of paper in his pockets, matchbooks, but no luck. By then it was getting late and I started to get the feeling that if there'd been more to find, I would have found it by then. I went back up to the roof and took one last look around the building, looking for a surveillance van, anything like that. That's when I noticed the building across the way had tinting on the windows. Out of curiosity, I flashed them with my trusty camera zapper—and sure enough, there were two telephoto lenses pointed right at me, one from each corner of the building. "

"Jeez, these guys sure believe in overkill, don't they?"

"I know, right? So I hopped across to the building next door, and waited to see if anybody would show up. About five minutes later, a van with its headlights off pulled up two doors down, and a bunch of guys with fancy headgear and no fashion sense got out."

"Amanda! When were you going to tell me that part?"

"I just told you, didn't I?"

He just shook his head. "So what did you do?"

"I got the hell out of there, of course. That's what took me so long—I took the long way back, to make sure I wasn't followed."

She could see he wasn't happy about any of it, but his sharp mind was clearly busy considering everything she'd said, adding it to what they already knew.

"It doesn't make sense," he said finally. "If they were able to get into Mac's building any time they wanted, if they had that kind of firepower, why not take him in his sleep? Why the wiretaps and all the surveillance?"

"That's what I'd like to know. They must have been after more than MacLeod. Whatever he was involved in—it's big, Joe. These guys make Horton look like a rank amateur."

They fell silent for a minute. A picture had formed in the back of her mind since she'd made her getaway: those men in black pinning Duncan down, hurting him. She'd shied away from it, trying not to think about it, but the image wouldn't entirely go away; it surfaced now, all too real. She moved, feeling like she needed to do something physical, or she'd jump out of her skin. "Where's that list of MIAs? I'm going to go try and find Methos. It's been too long."

"Now wait a minute. Just because he's got to go running around with a death wish doesn't mean you have to!"

"I'm not! I'm a big girl, Joe—"

Her Immortal sense chilled a warning up the back of her neck, then settled into her bones, a deep, tolling song of Presence. Intimately familiar with that look, Joe met her gaze with grim understanding.

"Company," they said together, and Amanda was already moving, swift and silent, to where her coat lay. Her sword was in her hand in another moment, and a glance at Joe told her he was rising, pistol in his hand.

She had only time enough to draw breath, to brace herself against whatever was coming, before a soft knock came at the door.

"It's me." A familiar baritone, muffled from the hall.

Relief flooded her. "Methos." She shifted her sword to her other hand and opened the door. "What took you—?" The worried chastisement died on her lips as soon as she saw him. He met her dismayed look with a wry expression.

"Mind if we do this inside? I managed to get this far without shocking any hotel guests, and I'd like to keep it that way."

Blood and dirt streaked his hairline and one side of his jaw; bits of asphalt were in his hair. His coat, torn and smelling of tar and blood, he held tightly around his body, concealing worse damage she was sure. A muscle near his eye leapt repeatedly, but the weariness in his face was only numb exhaustion. The despair she had feared to read in his eyes was thankfully absent.

Recovering from the momentary shock of his appearance, Amanda nodded and stepped back, letting him in. Joe drew a sharp breath behind her as she shut the door and locked it once more.

"Christ, what the hell happened to you?"

Methos made a beeline for the minibar. He didn't answer until he'd found a tiny bottle of scotch, unscrewed the cap, and swallowed half of it down, his eyes closed, head tilted back, exposing a thin, angry red line that started under his ear and disappeared into the neck of his sweater. Only pausing for breath, he downed the rest and found a second bottle, uncapping it before finally turning back to them with a sigh. "Sun Kwon happened to me." He drew a thumb absently across the mark at his throat, his mouth quirking faintly. "Or rather, I happened to him, as it turned out."

Joe looked impressed. "Sun's been around for a long time. Killed a lot of good people. You did the world a big favor, my friend."

"Looks like it was a little too close for comfort," Amanda said, looking him over critically.

"Yeah, you could say that." He drank half of the second mini, facing them now; the lapels of his coat parted, revealing a sweater that was more bloodstained than grey, jeans that had been sliced up well beyond repair. His hands were not quite steady.

"I take it he was not our guy," Joe said, needing to hear it.

Methos shook his head wearily. "Not our guy. Dead end." He chuckled mirthlessly. "So to speak." He looked at Amanda, expression guarded but needing to know. "What about you? Find anything?"

Amanda glanced at Joe. "Yes and no. Nothing that can't wait a few minutes." Methos was swaying on his feet, pale beneath the grime and blood; he plainly needed hot water and food, and more than either of those, rest. "You should get something in you besides that stuff."

But he only shrugged out of his coat with a grimace and laid it aside on the table. "Just tell me, Amanda. Don't keep me in suspense."

She sighed, and went to put her sword away. "Well, I can tell you this, when I went to his apartment this afternoon, somebody else had beaten me to it. The place was clean."

"But you did find something."

"What was interesting was what I didn't find. Whoever swept that apartment, they were pros. Zapped the phones and everything. I went back tonight and checked out the surveillance—the whole place was wired to the teeth, and whoever's watching it, they've got resources, and firepower."

Methos looked from her to Joe. "You let her go back there alone?"

"Hey, buddy, I didn't _let_ her do anything. She slipped me a mickey."

"Why am I not surprised." He spared her an irritated glance before turning back to Joe. "But you got the phone records." Joe grinned, and gave a little self-deprecating shrug, handing him the list of numbers with the notes he'd made. For the first time since he'd gotten there, Methos smiled in genuine pleasure. He took the paper and read it over, eyes shining with renewed life. "You do know the way to an old man's heart."

"Yeah, well, thank me when we know something."

"Hey, it's a start," Methos said. His eyes were bothering him, Amanda could tell; fine tremors seemed to run through his body in waves, and he seemed to have trouble focusing. At last he gave the list back to Joe and went back to the minibar, this time opting for hot coffee. Amanda watched him surreptitiously, not liking the way he looked. Either he hadn't taken the Quickening well, or there was more he hadn't told them. He took two swallows of the coffee, closed his eyes for a moment as the heat of it brought a little color into his pale skin, then opened them and poured the rest of his scotch into the cup.

Joe was saying, "Darlin', tell me your gut instinct about the men you saw get out of that van. They look like military to you?"

Amanda shifted her attention to him; he was looking at the printout he held, his expression thoughtful. "Somebody's military," she agreed. "I'd lay money on it."

Joe flashed her a grin, the one that had first charmed her five years before. "Someone else's money I'll bet." He pointed to the paper he held. "There's a number here we got from Mac's cell phone—it's a blocked government listing, disconnected. Could be a connection."

"Oh, that reminds me." Methos rummaged in the pockets of his discarded coat, and came up with a handful of computer CDs. He handed them to Joe, and Amanda could see that most of the plastic cases were cracked. "From Clauberg's computer. I backed up his documents directory. I'm afraid he declined to answer my questions, though."

Amanda looked at him sharply. No wonder Methos looked like hell. A second later, the other shoe dropped; Joe gave a low whistle. "Clauberg, too, huh?"

"You've been busy," Amanda said, looking at Methos with new respect. Taking two Immortals like that in the space of a few hours was a bit like getting run over by a truck, then asking it to back over you for good measure. A part of her wondered how many times he'd done something like that, how many Quickenings he'd taken in his lifetime. "Anybody else we should know about?" she asked casually.

Methos shook his head wryly, but now Joe had gotten a good look at him, and saw what Amanda had seen.

"You look like hell, man. Why don't you go take a shower and crash out? I've got a long night ahead of me to put all this stuff together."

Amanda thought she could see Methos sway at the suggestion, but he shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Uh-huh."

Methos returned Joe's appraisal pointedly. "And I'm not the one who checked himself out of a hospital two days ago."

"Well, I've got news for you, buddy, you look like you could use one about now."

"Tell you what," Methos countered, "I'll call it a night if you will. Three or four hours sleep is not enough to go on—not when we need all our wits about us. We'll get an early start in the morning."

"Yeah, okay. I just want to get a little further with this—"

Amanda stepped in, seeing that this was going nowhere fast. "Look, neither of you are in any shape to work a crossword puzzle right now, never mind what we've got to deal with. I, on the other hand, am wired for sound and still living on Paris time. Will you guys stop trying to out-macho each other and give it a rest, already?"

Joe still looked like he would argue, but she raised her eyebrows at him and he checked whatever protest he would have made. She was right, and they all knew it. With a rueful glance of shared defeat, the other two conceded the field.

* * *

Methos closed the bathroom door behind him and leaned on it for a moment, closing his eyes to postpone looking in the mirror a little longer. The whisky buzz wasn't enough to make him unsteady, just enough to dull the residual aches and get him a good way towards a pleasant, relieving numbness that he needed badly. He felt as though he'd been run hard, as though a light breeze would be enough to push him over. How he longed to lie down on the hotel bed and cross the narrow barrier between waking and sleeping. Right now, it wouldn't take more than a heartbeat, and he'd be there, cocooned in blessed darkness.

The smell of blood and tar was all over him, though, and he couldn't ignore it. He had to get clean, get that smell off, before he could sleep.

Struggling out of his ruined clothes, he left them in a heap on the bathroom floor and reached to turn on the shower. Not long, he told himself. Just get clean, and you can sleep.

But the beating of the hot water against muscles that felt bruised, the odor of coppery electricity the steam released from his Quickening-charged body, triggered something inside of him, and he found himself braced against the tile, hands splayed, shaking with a reaction he couldn't control.

He remembered killing Clauberg. Remembered reviving in that alley, dizzy from the loss of his own blood, grunting with the dead weight of Clauberg's corpse on top of him. Remembered struggling back to consciousness with a voice in his mind urging him to get up. Get up! Clauberg had coughed back to life a moment later—a shot to the heart never kept an Immortal down for long—and it had taken all his strength to push himself free, to lift his sword and make his arms and legs work, to keep moving, to fight. He hadn't had strength for a real fight, had only forced his sword arm to move, his body to obey his desperate commands by sheer force of will. Clauberg had nearly taken off his hand before he'd managed to deliver the final blow; the Quickening took him on his knees, hammering into him with brute, merciless power that seemed to go on and on.

Quickenings had been painful for him for a long time, but since Silas and Kronos he'd dreaded them; he'd hurt for days after killing Morgan Walker, and Clauberg had been much stronger, his lifeforce a twisted thing not to be borne. Such rage had been in him... he shuddered, feeling its coiling, slippery twisting in his belly, still there inside him. He remembered coming back to himself on the asphalt, wet and shivering, the stink of blood all over him, the stink of evil inside him. Remembered wanting to scream from the pain of having Clauberg inside of him, that ugly, twisted thing inside of him, and then thinking of Clauberg having Duncan's quickening, all that light being inside something so ugly, and then he'd realized it was too late, that he should have tried to sense Duncan somehow while the lightning had hammered into him, that he should have tried to find something of Duncan in that terrible assault of power.

But it was over now, and it was too late for that—if there had been any sign, any sense of him, it was too late, and Methos might never know.

He'd closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the wet asphalt, throat aching and raw, his thoughts like sharp, disjointed fragments, wanting to yell again in frustration, knowing he had to get up. Get up, and get the hell out of there. _Get up..._

He'd remembered, then, how it had seemed to him that Duncan had been there with him in the alley when he'd been dying, how he'd thought he'd heard... but no, that was impossible, wasn't it? Unless—

That was where things started to get hazy. Something had broken loose inside of him, and there were shadows after that. Shadows and blood and pain. Somehow he'd found the target he needed to find. Had retained the hunting instinct and gone after Sun Kwon, though how he'd gotten halfway across the city in the state he was in he didn't know. He could only thank whatever deities remained in the world that he'd kept enough presence of mind to find a fitting target for his rage, because he didn't remember making that decision, or what powers of reason had led him to the right address.

He didn't remember the fight with Sun, save that the hilt of his sword had been slick with his own blood and that he had not cared. He thought it had taken a long time, but it might have only seemed so; afterward, he remembered cutting... cutting flesh, the life running out under his hands only to return, the question he had asked over and over until the only answer was Sun's whispered _"end it... end it."_ But he hadn't, had he? Not at first. The hunger that raged in him demanded more payment than that. When he'd finally finished it, the Quickening had been agony, like being burned alive.

Afterwards, his throat felt like it bled from his screaming. The cut on his neck took a long time to heal, stinging like blazes as he wandered numbly through the darkest streets and alleys, hiding when he thought he might have been spotted, until finally reason had come back to him and he'd started to make his way back.

He tried again to remember what had happened between Clauberg's place and Sun Kwon's, whether he had done... anything that he'd forgotten... but his mind shied away from that possibility. He'd remember something, if that were true. The man who could have done what he feared was long dead, thousands of years lost to time.

Methos became aware that he'd turned the water far too hot, that it was burning his skin, healing only to burn again as the scalding water poured down; he turned the temperature down, pushing himself away from the wall and tilting his head back to let it pour over his face and hair, washing the grime away.

Behind his closed eyes, he saw the image he'd denied since he'd stood over that gurney in the city morgue. Two days now. Almost forty-eight hours, and they had nothing concrete, nothing that he could wrap his fist around. Nothing real save a disk of charred metal in his hand and that corpse, that terrible ruin of burned flesh and bone. Nausea rose, choking him. He'd been refusing to think of it for two days, but now the memory welled, stark and inescapable. He had seen death many, many times in his long life, but that, he didn't think he'd ever forget. The thought of MacLeod's fire, his strength, going to a monster like Clauberg—

 _Oh, Mac._ His heart ached. _We were supposed to get another chance, you and I. I thought you knew that._

 __He hadn't meant to let it go so far. Hadn't meant to let himself hope so hard. But he knew now that four years of fighting his own nature hadn't saved him. He put out a hand, bracing himself against the glass; his other hand clenched into a fist and for a long moment despair threatened to overwhelm him, heat aching in his throat.

 _Don't go falling apart on me now, old friend,_ chastised the inner voice that didn't sound like his own. _The game's not over yet._

He choked softly, then drew a breath, suddenly able to. He drew another, and the nausea subsided. Clarity returned, and the tremors faded from his body, leaving him feeling wrung out and shaky, close to the limits of his strength. Not any mystical connection, not some disembodied lifeforce or echo of his Quickening—only the mundane, human need to hope, and Methos's own foolish heart that refused to accept that he'd lost. Nothing new there. He'd always been a romantic fool, hard as he tried to change it.

No fool like an old fool. Whoever had coined that pithy phrase had got it right.

God, he was tired. He rallied long enough to wash the oil and bits of asphalt out of his hair, and called it good enough.

* * *

Of course, once he found his bag, dug out cotton shorts and a t-shirt and lay down, he was too exhausted to sleep. Joe was snoring softly in the next bed, and the gentle sound worked like sandpaper on his nerves; his own body kept betraying him when he started to drift, jerking him back to the waking world with that miserable feeling of falling. The light from the next room shone under the door, and he could hear Amanda moving around in there—what the hell was she doing, anyway?

The coffee had been a mistake, he decided at last, though the warmth had been welcome. He sighed, got up, and went out into the living room with the idea of finding a couple more bottles of scotch, or something else that would do, if the scotch was tapped out.

Amanda was sitting at Joe's computer, reading something there with a frown that somehow made her look both formidable and adorable. Little minx. He shut the bedroom door behind him and leaned against the frame.

"I didn't know you even knew how to use one of those things."

She smiled a little, but her eyes never left the screen; she typed something into a field that looked like part of some kind of database. "Very funny. I'd like to see you hack an access code for a Phoenix 2000 multisource laser detection system in under thirty seconds."

Methos pushed himself away from the door and came over, watching as she flipped through several more records, checked something on Joe's notepad, and made another entry. Never underestimate Amanda, Duncan had told him once. Lovely, brave Amanda. He didn't like seeing his own fear in her eyes. Didn't know how he was going to be strong enough for both of them if it turned out that he'd had them all chasing shadows and false hopes.

He went over to the minibar and found the last two bottles of scotch, opening one and tossing the cap on the bar top. It tasted like ambrosia and warmed his insides as it went down. He took it with him to the window and stood there looking out across the darkness of Central Park and the dots of lamplight disappearing into the trees, sipping the smoky liquid, trying to let it relax him.

"I thought you were going to sleep," Amanda said after a while, keeping her voice low.

"Couldn't," he answered without turning.

"You okay?"

The last sip of the liquor burned a little in his throat. "Yeah. Just too wired."

"Me too," she said, and then fell silent for a while, the only sound the occasional tapping of her fingers on the keys. He turned, watching her; his chest ached a little from the fire of the whiskey downed on an empty stomach, but it felt better than the chill that had been inside him for hours.

The last time all of them had been together, in Paris, they'd drunk champagne on the barge and Mac had told her he loved her. The words had hurt him—an unexpected, sharp pang he hadn't let himself analyze at the time. He'd been an idiot, thinking that he'd got the short end of the stick when Amanda had been given those words, not realizing it was a goodbye of sorts, that it was the ending of something between them, not a beginning. He'd watched Joe put his arms around Mac and thought that it would never be that easy for them, and his jealousy had blinded him to the gift Mac had tried to give him. He'd heard the words, but he hadn't heard the meaning. Hadn't heard the acceptance, unqualified, unconditional—not until Mac had surprised him in that car park, hugged him close like a brother. And by then, it was too late.

Across the room, Amanda glanced at the wall clock, set aside the notepad and got up from the computer, stretching a little as she did so. "It's late enough—I'm going to call home and check in, see if the boys are staying out of trouble. Then, I'm going to bed. You should do the same."

"Yes, mother."

She wrinkled her nose at him and went into the other bedroom. He started towards his own room, then turned back for a moment, watching her sit down on the bed with the phone in her lap. She looked tired, her shoulders tense as she dialed the long string of numbers, then closed her eyes and waited for the overseas connection. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed her.

 _Not a good idea, Mac, leaving the three of us alone together. Think of the trouble we're likely to get into. Better get your ass back here before things really get dicey._

"Guess who," Amanda said into the phone, and something had eased in her voice. Methos turned away, slipping into the adjacent room and drawing the door shut after him. Good for her, that she should have found someone whose voice could ease worry and grief from across an ocean. Good for her.

The sheets were cool against his bare skin. He turned onto his belly, pulled the blankets over him and turned his cheek against the pillow; sleep dragged him down with gratifying speed into a deep, merciful dark.


	10. Chapter 10

**_Wednesday  
7:14 a.m._ **

**__**"Joe, I'm not arguing with you. I'm saying, we can't afford to rule out any possibility, not yet. Not until we've got reason to. And that's not going to happen until we can narrow the field a bit more." Joe scowled, and saw irritation flicker over Methos's sharp features. "Give me a little credit, will you? I think we both know I can take care of myself."

The two of them sat at the small table, stacks of file folders, two empty coffee cups and Joe's laptop between them. They'd already conferred over Joe's list of names and addresses and sketched out a plan of attack. They were in agreement over the idea of tracing MacLeod's steps in the days before he'd disappeared; unfortunately, the agreement broke down over the part where Methos wasn't yet willing to concede that splitting up was more dangerous than sticking together. Joe shook his head. "I can't believe I'm hearing this, from you of all people. Who are you, and what have you done with Methos?"

"I gave him the week off," Methos quipped. When Joe didn't laugh, he gave up the pale attempt to break the tension. "Look. We've come this far, we know there's another Immortal involved—doesn't it make sense to find out who?"

"And I'm not saying we shouldn't! But for Christ's sake, there's got to be a better way—"

"Don't you two know it's uncivilized to argue before breakfast?"

Joe looked up to see Amanda standing in the doorway, looking like a million bucks, as usual. "We've had breakfast," Methos said without missing a beat. "All bets are off."

Joe sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, then shot an accusing glare in Methos's direction. "This guy's taking years off my life."

"He'll do that." She came towards them, arching her brows. "Two cups of coffee and a creamer doesn't count as breakfast."

"Three," said Methos. "But who's counting?"

"Right, I think maybe you guys need to lay off the caffeine. Good morning, Joe." She kissed him on the cheek, improving his mood considerably, and went to get her own coffee.

"Hey, what about me? Don't I get a kiss?"

"Dream on, darling," she tossed back over her shoulder. Joe's eyes met Methos's for a second, and neither of them could entirely suppress a grin.

"Don't look so smug," Methos warned, eyes glinting. "She probably just picked your pocket."

"I heard that!"

"Geez, it's like babysitting with you two," Joe complained, and he was still pissed off at Methos, but it was hard to sustain it when he felt like laughing. Some of the tension had eased from Methos's posture, too. Amanda came back and sat down, and Joe remembered belatedly the surprise he'd found when he'd opened his laptop at daybreak. "Hey, you were busy last night. Don't suppose you want a job?"

Amanda smiled over her cup. "Think you could afford me?"

Methos snorted faintly. "The mind boggles."

Amanda shot him a narrow-eyed look, then turned back to Joe. "So, what'd I miss?"

He turned the computer screen so she could see it. On it was a timeline, its first entry a week old; the last entry was Sunday the 18th, 11:30 p.m. The five days in between showed fourteen phone numbers and addresses labeled with time of call and duration, interspersed with a handful of Watcher entries. The last entry simply read: _last sighted, JFK._

"What are the two in blue?"

"The first one's a take-out place in the Village. The second one's a plumbing and fixture supplier in Jersey, specializes in restored vintage sinks and so forth. It's a pretty safe bet neither one's of much use to us."

"And this is the last time he called you? Thursday morning?"

"Right. We can go back further if we need to, but I think whatever tipped him off, it happened Wednesday night or Thursday morning. I think he would have canceled out on dinner with me Wednesday if he knew he was in trouble."

Amanda scanned the rest of the names and addresses; one of them caught her eye. "R J Supply Company? What's that?"

"I wondered about that, too. I couldn't find anything under that name in the directory, just a phone number, and they weren't answering yesterday afternoon. Macklin called one of our guys out there and had him drive by to check it out. It's electronics. A little storefront in Queens."

Amanda's interest sharpened, a knowing gleam in her eye as she met Joe's gaze. "In other words, the kind of place you'd go to buy surveillance equipment."

"Or counter-surveillance equipment, exactly."

"Now we're talking. What else?"

"Calls to his local bank and two in Geneva, one to his storage facility... this one we thought was a residence, but it turns out to be the back line for a mechanic in Jersey City. Probably what it looks like, but I'll give them a call in a little while and find out."

"What about this one? Weston and Associates? Sounds like a lawyer's office."

Joe nodded. "He told Methos he was planning on wrapping up some loose ends with Connor's estate. The call to the taxi company is a big question mark. The company is based in Teaneck, but they service a pretty large territory, anywhere in the tri-state area. He obviously wasn't in Manhattan, but it could have picked him up in Philadelphia for all we know. Could be pretty tricky to get the dispatch records, but if it turns out to be the only lead we've got, we'll figure something out."

"What about these two? Jesse Reynolds and Ha Ming?"

"Ha Ming is a restaurant on sixty-third street. He was there Saturday night. Macklin didn't see him arrive with anyone, but he might have been meeting somebody there." Joe glanced at Methos, who was being uncharacteristically quiet. "Jesse Reynolds is a retired cabinetmaker, far as we can tell—lives in Brooklyn. Used to build and restore boat interiors. We couldn't figure out what he had to do with anything, until Methos looked up the company he used to work for and found out it was owned by Russell Nash."

Amanda sat back. "So, what's the plan? Check out the electronics supply store first, then the restaurant, then the taxi company and maybe the lawyer's office?"

"That's the idea, if our friend here doesn't decide to go play chicken with the local Immortal thug brigade."

"We're not really having this conversation again, are we?"

"That depends, are you still a stubborn pain in the ass?"

"Boys!" Amanda jumped in before things could get out of hand. "Let's remember the part where we're all supposed to be on the same side, shall we?"

"Exactly my point," Joe grumbled, but he let it rest. For the time being, at least. He picked up one of the books that Amanda had brought from Mac's place, leafing through it. "I keep thinking we'll find a note or something, some kind of code maybe. I can't believe he'd leave us totally in the dark."

Methos leaned back in his chair. "Come on, Joe. This is MacLeod we're talking about. In the dark is exactly where he'd leave us, if it meant we stayed out of it."

"Yeah, well, he oughtta know better. Staying out of it isn't exactly something any of us excel at. The least he could do is make it a little easier on us." He set the book aside and started gathering file folders and papers together. "You two ready to get a move on? The store doesn't open until eight-thirty, but it'll take us a little while to get out there."

"Give me two minutes," Methos said, getting up.

"Ditto," said Amanda.

And so it was that Joe was in the living room alone, packing up the last of his files, when his cell phone rang.

* * *

"Joe, it's Alec. We just got a call from Donna Harris."

The name wasn't one Joe had encountered in the past few days, but it took him only a second to recall Harris's assignment. "Special Agent Harris—watches Matthew of Salisbury?" His fingers were already typing 'McCormick' and hitting 'find.'

"Right. She says he never came into work on Monday."

Joe's hands hesitated on the keys. For a moment, he thought he'd heard wrong. He adjusted the phone against his shoulder. "Say that again." He felt a presence close behind him: Amanda.

"Matthew McCormick never came into work on Monday. She hasn't seen him since Sunday afternoon."

Disbelief, then anger, sparked through him. "You have got to be kidding me. What the hell took her so long to report it?"

"She says she checked with his boss Monday morning, and was told that McCormick had been sent on field assignment. She herself was transferred that same day to a racketeering case in Atlantic City. She says she was pulled off a crucial case without notice and she's been down there ever since. This morning was the first time she's been back to the New York office."

"So, maybe he's on a field assignment, did she ever think of that?"

"There's more. She said when she went by McCormick's office about half an hour ago, it had been cleaned out, and they told her that he's been transferred out west somewhere, but nobody's sure exactly where and the system's denying her access to his transfer record."

Joe felt as though the gentle tip of a cold finger touched the back of his neck. _Whatever he was involved in—it's big, Joe. These guys make Horton look like a rank amateur._

McCormick's data record was on the screen in front of him. The photograph was recent, McCormick radiating charm and confidence even in the candid shot, his good looks barely dimmed by his utilitarian suit and tie. Joe's eyes fell on the list of vital statistics. Height. Physical description. Something else, not fear, touched him. He sensed Amanda behind him, reading over his shoulder, practically humming like a live wire with impatience as she waited for Joe to tell her what was going on. She must have seen what he'd seen; a moment later she was gone, presumably to get Methos. He couldn't spare attention for it.

"Alec," he said abruptly, "did she call from within the building?"

"From a pay phone. She said she wasn't taking any chances."

She was taking more than she knew. "What about you? You been sticking to encrypted communications like I told you?"

"Joe, how long have we known each other? We're good, don't worry."

Joe's thoughts spun. He didn't want to be right about this, but the coincidences were adding up too fast to deny, and he heard Amanda's question from yesterday loud and clear in his head— _But who would he ask for help, if not one of us?_ He knew as surely as he knew a G-chord that it fit, that McCormick was exactly the kind of guy MacLeod would have turned to in this situation. Joe should have thought of it himself—would have, if he'd seen McCormick's name on that MIA list. God damn it. And now they'd lost two days.

There was hope here, one he didn't yet dare name to himself, but overriding that was dread, and more danger to all of them than he could have imagined. If his hunch was right, if somebody had whacked McCormick and made him disappear—a bone-deep chill was sinking through him as the implications added up one after the other in his head—then they were all very deep in the shit.

A second Immortal disappearance was bad enough, but it was the cover-up that made his gut feel like he'd swallowed something cold and heavy. That had to come from within the Bureau, or more likely, from somewhere further up the food chain—from somebody who could well know how to kill an Immortal, and who was at the very least suspicious of Donna Harris.

This was worse than Horton, worse than Kalas; this was nightmare, plain and simple. For long seconds, he looked down the barrel of a gun he'd hoped no Watcher or Immortal would ever face, seeing a future that made icy fingers of horror clench in his gut. Immortals in the hands of a shadow conspiracy hiding behind the cloak of the U.S. federal government. Witch hunts, aided by stolen Watcher records; Watchers themselves imprisoned and interrogated for what they knew. Experiments. Propaganda and terror and hate. War.

"Joe?"

Macklin. Waiting for Joe to tell him what to do. That endless, awful moment bled at last into the next one, and Joe's mind began to race, this time with a purpose. He'd repeatedly cautioned Macklin and his people to be careful in their investigations, so there was some chance they weren't in immediate danger, but Harris's sudden trip to Atlantic City meant she was probably already being watched. They could be tracking her, monitoring her phone calls, her contacts, her e-mails. Even if by some miracle Joe himself had passed under the radar at the parking garage, it hardly mattered. They'd have his phone records by now, bank records, DMV—shit. If they'd gotten McCormick, if they were onto him and Harris, it was a matter of time before they connected the dots and breached Watcher security somewhere, got to somebody. And if that happened—

"Alec, listen to me. We've got big problems. I want you to put the word out that Harris is under surveillance, and that nobody in the organization is to contact her under any circumstances. Get in touch with Fitzpatrick directly, let her know what's going on. Anybody who's had contact with Harris in the last six months had better watch their asses, too. I want everybody following security protocols to the letter, you got me? We're about two steps away from the shit hitting the fan with this thing."

"I'm on it. What about Donna?"

Joe thought quickly. "Paul Erickson still works at the D.A.'s office, doesn't he?"

"Last I knew."

"Call him, tell him to messenger a file over to Donna's office. It should pass under the radar. Tell him to let her know we're under security lockdown, and to lie low until she's contacted. Got it?"

"Got it."

"I'll check in when I can." Joe ended the call.

Amanda had returned with Methos in tow. Sitting down across from him, Methos leaned forward, intent. "McCormick. Tell me."

A lesser man might have quailed under that fierce intensity. Joe gave it to him straight.

"He's missing. Has been since Sunday. Someone's covering it up."

"Someone in the Bureau?"

"Or somebody who can make things happen within the Bureau. His Watcher's an agent, too, and I think she's in trouble. I've got to get her out of there and into a safehouse, if there is such a damn thing anymore. Methos—Mac knows this guy. They're not friends, exactly, but they were on friendly terms last I knew."

"And if you were MacLeod, and somebody had bugged your flat—"

"Yeah." He drew a breath, let it out. "There's something else. You ever met him?" He turned the laptop so Methos could see the screen. Methos started to shake his head, then stilled, getting a good look at McCormick and the brief description that accompanied his photo. All expression left him, his face as shuttered as Joe had ever seen it. At last the hazel eyes rose to meet his. Joe said nothing, but the possibilities crackled between them.

Methos got up as if he couldn't sit still any more, moving a few paces away. Amanda broke in. "What else, Joe? You look like you saw a ghost."

"Ours, if we're not careful," Joe said grimly. "I think we're in trouble, too—bigger trouble than we thought."

Methos was nodding, putting the pieces together. "If they know about Harris, then how long will it be before they get the whole Watcher network?"

"Worse than that," Joe said. "I'm not sure they're not watching the hotel. We thought we were being smart, but we never counted on this whole thing being connected to the feds. They could easily have spotted me at the parking garage. We have to assume they were watching my apartment building, and that they tracked us here."

Alarmed, Amanda started to pace. "I don't get it. If they've been onto us all along, what's their game? Why haven't they come after us?"

"Maybe they don't dare make another move while the legitimate investigation is still going on. Maybe they don't know yet what our connection to Mac is, and they're trying to put it together, waiting to see what we'll do. Maybe that I.D. I flashed threw them off, and they're afraid of who I might really be working for. Hell, I don't know. What I do know is, we've got to get out of here. Until we know we're clear, we're sitting ducks, and anybody we talk to is a target."

"One thing's for sure," said Methos. "If they had any doubt about how much we knew, Amanda's little late-night excursion tipped them off."

"No way," she protested. "I was careful. They didn't even know I was there until I flashed the cameras, and even then, I made sure nobody got a good look at me. I could have been anybody."

"You sure about that?"

"Positive."

Joe looked at Methos, the spark of an idea catching hold. "What about you? How much could somebody have seen if they were tailing you yesterday?"

Caught off guard by the question, Methos opened his mouth, then frowned, thinking. "It's possible... not much. They might have followed me as far as Saint Cecelia's, but if so, it's likely I lost them when I ditched Salvatore's goons. I don't think they could have heard much even if they came inside the church." He looked up. "They could have picked up Salvatore after I left, but I don't think he could have told them much even if they did."

Joe weighed scenarios. "Maybe not a total train wreck, then. We might still have a chance to catch them off-guard, if we move fast."

Amanda looked from him to Methos and back again. She sat down, searching his face. "Joe, talk to me. What about McCormick? Do you think that's who Duncan went to meet that night?"

"The pieces fit, don't they? Too soon to tell, but my gut's telling me we found our man."

"But then how do we know—" She broke off, glancing at Methos. "How can we be sure it's McCormick's body you saw?"

Joe had been avoiding asking himself that very question because there was no way to be sure, no answer one way or the other. For the first time in days they had a name, a possibility that fit Methos's theory—but alongside the resurgence of hope was the equally real possibility that they'd been chasing shadows. They had a crucial piece of the puzzle, but still no grasp of the whole picture.

Methos came to his rescue. "Duncan was the primary target. It's the only thing that makes sense. The surveillance at his place, the attack on Joe, the phones—it all adds up. McCormick was a fly in the ointment, a complication they didn't expect. Whatever happened at JFK, it wasn't planned. It was about opportunity and damage control." His expression sharpened, and he turned abruptly, meeting Joe's eyes. "Joe—that's it."

"What is?"

"The airport. That's the connection. It must have been the security cameras." He nodded to himself, his gaze alight with sudden insight. "I should have realized."

"Mind finishing your sentences, for those of us who can't read minds?"

"The airport security cameras—they're connected to a federal database of facial recognition patterns. The FBI uses them to trigger alerts, to track suspects. Whoever's behind this had access to those files. They must have put in the recordings from Charles de Gaulle, and flagged the system to alert them if it scored a match. It explains why this all started when Mac came back to New York." He looked up. "It also explains why his phone call to you threw such a wrench into their plans."

 _No, not my people, not since you came back to the States—_

The pieces of the puzzle shifted and rearranged themselves in Joe's mind, and he found himself switching windows on the laptop, looking again at the chronology he'd put together. It fit. "So they didn't move on him until he arranged the meet with McCormick."

"Right. I'm guessing before that, they were busy trying to figure out your connection to Mac and who the two of you might be working for. But once Mac contacted a federal agent, the risk of letting him run around loose became too great and they had to bring him in."

Joe stared intently at his notes, an intense weariness sweeping over him, a chill settling in his gut. This was a lot bigger than MacLeod, a lot bigger than all of them. "It's just speculation," he said, wanting Methos to be wrong, wanting more than anything for all of it to be a bad dream.

"But you have to admit it makes sense."

Joe didn't point out the obvious: if Methos was right, the body in the morgue could just as easily be Mac. They still had no way of knowing what exactly had gone down in that parking garage. They'd come full circle—and now they'd made themselves the targets. Every move they made put Watchers and Immortals and the future of the whole fucking world at risk, and they had no way of knowing how far it went.

Amanda had risen and started pacing again, her arms folded tightly against her middle. "This can't be legit. If it was, all they'd have to do is charge him with falsifying his identity and arrest him. This is something else."

Methos nodded grimly. "Ask yourself what a suspicious mind would make of a man who takes half a dozen rounds at close range and without a vest—including one to the head—gets declared dead in front of dozens of witnesses, then manages to elude airport security and the Paris police in record time. I'd say that man would be very valuable in certain intelligence circles, wouldn't you? Especially if they could take him alive and find out what makes him tick."

"We're in way over our heads," Joe said at last. "We need information, and we need help. And we've got to get out of this hotel and away from Manhattan."

He expected Methos to argue with him, but it was Amanda who turned on him, dark eyes flashing. "You want us to give up? What about MacLeod?"

"Nobody said anything about giving up! But this is too big for the three of us. We're about one step from everything falling apart, in case you hadn't noticed, and we don't even know what we're up against. Look, I don't want to turn tail any more than you do, but every Immortal and every Watcher we know is at risk here!"

"So? It's not like we've never faced that before!"

"Amanda, Joe's right," Methos cut in. "We're no good to MacLeod or anybody else if they can follow every move we make. First things first, let's get out of here, get ourselves some breathing room and regroup. It's about time we got the upper hand on these guys, don't you think?"

Amanda's expression turned speculative, and she regarded Methos with new appreciation. "You've got an idea."

"Always. And right now, I've got an idea I'd like to live to see tomorrow. So if I'm right, and Joe's got a plan, what say we get the hell out of here while the getting's good?"

Amanda agreed, and Joe told them what he had in mind.


	11. Chapter 11

**_8:52 a.m._ **

As they left the elevator, Methos saw Joe press a button on his phone, then drop it into his pocket. Methos fell into a flanking position beside him, and Amanda did the same on the other side.

All three of them were carrying more firepower than certain people with boy scout tendencies would have approved of, but that didn't stop Methos from feeling uncomfortably exposed as they crossed the palatial lobby. He didn't expect any hint of surveillance yet—hopefully never, if Joe's plan worked—but he figured it was going to be one of those days where it wouldn't hurt to err on the side of paranoia. The sobering revelations of the past hour did not exactly inspire peace of mind. All things considered, high-reaching government shadow conspiracies were among his least favorite things; he'd much rather choose the psychopathic Immortal behind Door Number One.

Before they reached the doors, Joe stopped to pull out a pair of sunglasses and put them on, then took a bill out of his billfold. It blew out of his fingers when the door opened and Amanda bent down and picked it up, handing it to him.

"Thank you, darlin'," he said, but behind the sunglasses, his eyes were scanning the taxi stand out front. "Hang on a second." He delayed a moment, taking the bill and refolding it, tucking it in his side pocket, then returning the billfold to a different pocket. Outside, a woman in a grey business suit got into the cab at the stand. "Okay, let's go." They emerged onto the steps as the first cab pulled away and a second pulled in behind it.

Amanda, Methos, Amanda's knapsack, and Joe's laptop case went into the back seat, while Joe took the front. The printouts, they'd destroyed; everything else, phones included, they'd left behind. "La Guardia," Joe said as he shut the door, and they pulled away from the hotel.

"Traffic's a bear today," the driver said, angling skillfully into the press of cars on Fifth Avenue. "We may have to take a little detour."

"That's good," said Joe, flashing him a grin, "because coincidentally, a detour is exactly what we had in mind. Amanda, Adam, meet Alec Macklin. Alec, my partners in crime."

Macklin returned the grin in the rearview, his reflection giving the impression of deep-set grey eyes and steady competence. His face was weathered and brown, and the tattoo at his wrist was soft-edged and bluish with the years. "Sit back for a few minutes and enjoy the ride. We'll have to move fast when we get to the first rendezvous point, but we've got a little maneuvering to do before we work our presto-change-o."

"I like this guy, Joe," Amanda said, turning an impish smile at the mirror. "You said he was good, but you never told us he was cute, too."

"Pay no attention," warned Methos. "'Flirt' is her default setting. It's your driving she's attracted to—if you're not careful, she'll have you working her next heist."

"Hey! Don't give away all my secrets."

"I'm not worried," Macklin said, slipping in behind another cab with practiced ease. "I've done my homework when it comes to the Amazing Amanda. I think I can handle it." He might have winked at her in the mirror, then, but Methos couldn't quite be sure.In any case, Amanda beamed a 1000-watt smile toward the front seat.

"See? I knew we were going to get along."

Joe's attention was on the side mirror, watching the small gaps in traffic as they closed behind them. Methos watched the cars beside them in the sluggish flow of traffic, but no one pinged his radar. "Anything, Joe?"

"I don't see anybody back there, but chances are they don't need a car to track us. Between the ATMs and the traffic cameras, this whole street is wired up like a Christmas tree. Besides, why waste time trying to tail us in this? They know where we're goin'. They'll keep an eye on us and pick us up by satellite on the expressway."

"What if it turns out we're wrong about that?"

"Then, my friend, we go to Plan B."

Macklin's cell phone chirped. He was wearing an earpiece; he touched a button to answer it. "Go." He listened for a few moments, then, "I'll tell him. Thanks, Paul." Ending the call, he moved over another lane and turned left on 57th. "He got word to Donna. If she follows protocol, we should be able to pick her up at Farragut West in a few hours."

"Now we have to hope she can keep her head down that long," Joe said.

"Presuming we can do the same for the next little while," said Methos, "what exactly are we looking for?"

"If we're lucky, some more pieces of the puzzle."

"And if luck decides to take a holiday?"

"At least we won't be sitting ducks any more. I don't know about you, but I'd rather present a moving target."

"I'd rather avoid the whole target designation altogether, but it doesn't look like that's an option."

Traffic brought them once more to a halt, and Macklin's phone chirped again. "Go." He glanced toward the intersection ahead, eyes coming to rest on a minivan with tinted windows at the corner, waiting to turn onto 57th. "I see you. We're coming up on the intersection now." The light changed, and the van pulled out in front of them as cars ahead started through. It stayed in the right hand lane, moving slowly; in a few moments they were approaching, then passing it. A woman with dark hair and sunglasses was at the wheel. Traffic was moving slowly enough that Methos had time to read the bumper sticker as they passed: _My child is Citizen of the Month at the Willow Academy._

"Nice touch," he murmured, and exchanged a glance with Amanda. In the mirror, he saw the van accelerate and slip into their lane one car back; it stayed with them when they turned onto 3rd.

Traffic slowed, accelerated, rush hour ebb and flow taking them through another intersection. On the other side, Macklin said, "And there's our number one car." He nodded toward the cross street, and Methos saw a cab at the corner pull out into traffic, heading toward the bridge. Unusual, for this time of day, it carried three passengers; at first glance, their profiles gave him the disorienting feeling of deja vu.

He wasn't the only one. Amanda's bemused gaze followed the other cab as it joined the press of cars. "Don't take this the wrong way," she said, "but you guys are a little too good at this."

They reached the corner and turned into the same queue, Macklin keeping half a dozen cars between them and their dopplegangers. The minivan, Methos saw, was directly behind them now. Both vehicles angled into the left lane, accelerating as they neared the lower level bridge entrance. In another moment they were on the bridge and crossing into shadow, the upper roadway blocking the glare of the morning sun. "Two minute warning," Macklin told them, watching his mirrors. "Be ready—we won't have long to make the switch, and you guys are going to have to move fast." He had already eased up on the gas pedal, both they and their chase car reducing speed. "Bonnie, how we doing?" He listened for a moment, then nodded, glancing at Joe. "She says we still haven't spotted a tail."

"What about traffic cameras on the bridge?"

"There's one pointed at the westbound lanes, but none on this side. Not enough light."

They reduced speed even more as they reached the other side of the river, letting the decoy car gain distance on them. Cars started to pass them on the right. The double-decker roadway continued past the bridge; overhead, the el train droned past, its vibrations rumbling through the steel gridwork. Traffic slowed to a crawl as they drew closer to the plaza interchange, and the driver of the minivan slipped into a small gap in the right hand lane. They could hear the indignant blare of a horn protesting the move, but both drivers ignored it. The van pulled alongside them and stayed there. "Okay," Macklin said, "this is it. As soon as traffic stops, we go. Amanda, you ready?"

"Ready." Somewhere in the past few moments, she had donned a dark wig and sunglasses. Amused, Methos shot a look at her knapsack.

"What don't you keep in there, anyway?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Not setting a very good example for your little Citizen of the Month, are you?"

"I'm warning you now, if I hear even one soccer mom joke, heads will roll."

"You watch yourself, Alec," Joe said. "This doesn't work unless we all get safely out of the line of fire, remember that."

"I will, Joe, don't worry."

"Same goes for me," Amanda said. "We owe you, big time. I won't forget."

Brake lights ahead of them were their signal to be ready. Beside them, the westbound lanes were congested and moving even more slowly, rush hour traffic heading into the city. Sheltered from view by the steel girders of the roadway structure, by traffic to their left and the van to their right, hidden from satellite surveillance by the upper decks of the bridge, Joe's people had won them the best chance to slip off the radar that they were likely to get. Methos had to admit he was impressed. Now, it was up to them to make it count.

Macklin braked, and Joe and Amanda were moving the second the car stopped. Beside them, the driver of the minivan got out and opened the side door; Amanda got in behind the wheel, and the woman Macklin had called Bonnie stood by as Joe climbed into the back of the van. Methos followed, getting in after him and pulling the door shut as Bonnie got into the back of the cab. Through the tinted window, Methos saw her pull off her jacket and put on a frosted blonde wig. From start to finish, the entire exchange had taken maybe twenty seconds.

Amanda handed him a pair of compact binoculars over her shoulder. "Here, make yourself useful and watch for a tail."

Joe shot him a look, and Methos bit back the snide rejoinder that rested on his tongue. They might be spending a lot of time in close quarters over the next few hours, and Joe had probably had about as much of their adolescent sniping as he could take. Besides, Methos decided, taking the binoculars, he didn't really feel like finding out how serious she was about that head-rolling remark.

He slipped into the back seat as they started moving again. The decoy car would already be through the intersection and headed toward La Guardia; if the deception was spotted when they reached the airport, Macklin and his associate had maybe twenty minutes or more to get clear of the area and slip under the radar themselves before anyone started checking the satellite feeds and spotted the second cab. If they failed, it would buy the three of them at least a little time; if Macklin was as good as Joe said he was, it would buy them all the freedom to maneuver for a while without Big Brother on their heels.

Amanda took them onto Queens Boulevard as they left the tangle of overpasses, heading away from the bridge. Nape prickling as they drove once more into the open, Methos reminded himself that the tinting on the van's back windows rendered them opaque from the outside, and started scanning the lanes behind them for any sign of unwelcome company. What strange bedfellows Immortals and Watchers made, he mused, and yet they seemed to end up back in the sack every time the proverbial excrement hit the fan, didn't they? In this day and age, with its bristling arsenal of technology, maybe they were both endangered species who hadn't admitted it yet.

Amanda took a sudden right turn, and he had to grab a handhold to steady himself. "Hang on, boys. I'm going to run a little test pattern, make sure we're in the clear."

"A little warning, next time?" Methos said mildly.

"I told you to hang on, didn't I?"

Joe chuckled. "I think he means warn us first, darlin'."

"Picky, picky."

For the next several minutes, Amanda made a series of turns that eventually led them back onto the main road. "Anything, Methos?"

"All clear, far as I can tell." He lowered the binoculars and turned around, feeling slightly carsick. "How far to the surveillance shop?"

Joe opened his laptop and brought up a street map. "Just a few blocks. We ready for phase two, then?" He handed out the new phones Macklin had left in the van for them, tucking his own in his coat pocket.

"In for a penny," said Methos.

"You got that right."

A few minutes later, they pulled into a busy parking area under the elevated train station, across the street from a row of storefronts. One of them bore the name R J Supply printed in small letters on the door. Amanda turned down the center aisle, letting the van idle at a crawl while all three of them scanned their immediate surroundings.

"There's our ride," Joe said, spotting an unremarkable, late model American sedan parked up ahead. "New York plate, ATB 8614."

"Binoculars, please?" said Amanda, and Methos handed them forward. She stopped the van, and perused the surveillance storefront. "Doesn't look like anybody's home."

"And I don't see a welcoming committee anywhere," Methos said, scanning the parking lot and the street beyond. "We'll go in through the back, just to be sure. Joe, we'll leave you here. Get the engine started, and keep an eye on things for us, will you?"

"What else is a Watcher for?"

Methos met his look, lips quirking in spite of himself. "Don't forget to watch your ass while you're at it."

"Goes without saying," Joe said with a grin, and pulled open the side door. His gaze swept the area again when he was outside. "Amanda," he said, and the two of them exchanged a look of their own.

"Joe."

Methos slid into the middle seat, handing him his laptop bag; Joe stepped back, and Methos pulled the door closed.

They left him beside the sedan and drove down to the other end of the parking lot, the surveillance shop almost directly opposite. Amanda pulled the van into an empty slot and they got out. Moving quickly, they crossed the street and slipped around back, down the alley.

The locked steel door presented barely a moment's challenge for Amanda. Watching the alley as she worked her magic, Methos reflected, not for the first time, that if one's plans required you to have access to things that didn't belong to you, it could be rather handy to travel with a master thief. A viewpoint, he felt certain, that Duncan must have shared on more than one occasion—he'd have to remember to needle him about that at some point in the future.

"Say the magic word and win a hundred dollars," Amanda said softly, and opened the door.

They stepped into a cramped back room lined with shelves to the ceiling. Rows of boxes and plastic bins lined the shelves; a small desk was pushed against one wall, and beside it the door into the front part of the store stood open. One whole wall was lined with newspaper clippings, of the sort collected by your garden variety conspiracy theorist, and a computer sat on the desk, its SETI screensaver reflecting the fluorescent overhead lights.

Pistol in his hand, Methos closed the door, locking it.

Watching for movement in the shadows, they crossed silently to the inside door. On the floor beside it was a box stacked high with newsletters. The title caught Methos's eye: _The Lone Gunman: The Newsletter For Those Who Want to Stay Informed and Alive._ He picked one up, showing it to Amanda, who smirked as he folded it in half and stuck it in his coat. "How can I resist?" he murmured.

"I'm surprised you don't have a subscription."

He went first through the doorway. The main part of the store was darker than the room in back, the only light coming from the front windows. On the left, a long counter and a display case divided the room in two. Boxes were stacked messily on the floor and on the countertop; the proprietor was obviously packing up shop. Sensing they weren't alone, he moved forward—there. A flicker of movement, reflected in the glass case. Methos turned, saw the shadowed aisle between two pegboard display walls, and moved quickly into the gap.

"Stay where you are, and you won't get hurt."

A fortyish, whipcord-thin guy with a receding hairline and tattoos drew back from the gun, lifting his hands.

"Hey, let's not do anything crazy, okay?"

"Wasn't planning on it. We just want to ask you a few questions."

Amanda circled around to the left, sidestepping a box to put herself between their host and the front door. "Why don't you come on out of there, and tell us your name?"

Warily, he moved out of the narrow corridor, into the light. "It's Reilly. Mike Reilly. But I'll warn you now, if you think I know what the hell's going on, you came to the wrong place."

Now that Methos got a better look at his face, the guy did look a bit worse for wear. He had a cut on one cheekbone, healing over but still visible, and the bruised imprints of finger marks were visible against the ink on his arms. "Someone was here before us. Who?"

"You know, I didn't quite catch their names."

"Listen," Amanda cut in. "Don't get cute, okay? Answer the man's questions, and we can all get on with our day."

"Put the gun down and I might feel more cooperative."

"Get cooperative and I might not lose my temper," Methos said mildly.

The guy seemed to consider that. "Fair enough."

Methos toned it down half a notch or so. "A friend of ours came to see you on Friday. Big guy, dark hair. Has a bit of an accent."

"That's right."

"What did he talk to you about?"

"He thought somebody was watching his place. Asked me about counter-surveillance."

"Why you?" Amanda asked. "How'd he find you?"

"The Yellow Pages, I guess," the guy said easily. "How do you usually find things?" Methos and Amanda exchanged a glance. "What?"

"He wouldn't have looked in the Yellow Pages," Methos said. "You're not listed there, for one thing. But even if you were, he'd have been looking for someone he thought he could trust—and for one reason or another, that someone was you."

Reilly looked from Methos to Amanda. "He really is a friend of yours."

"He really is," Amanda said, her tone changing to one of honest entreaty. "A very good friend—the best. We're worried about him, and we're trying to find out what kind of trouble he might be in. But we don't have much time, so if you know anything—"

Reilly's gaze came back to rest on Methos. Too aware of the minutes ticking past, Methos slowly lowered the pistol, then put it back in his coat. "We really don't have a lot of time," he said, and showed the guy his hands, empty.

"He was a referral," Reilly said at last, his stance relaxing. "Came to me through a mutual friend. He brought me some super-sophisticated hardware, and asked me what I thought of it."

"Right, and what was that?"

"It didn't come mail order, if that's what you mean." Reilly lost a little of his guarded look as he warmed to a subject he could relate to. "I've seen some pretty amazing bug tech the last few years, but nothing like this. I told him it had to be NSA, but the truth is I've never even seen government issue stuff that could touch those little beauties—it took me about half an hour to figure out how to turn 'em off."

That bit of information wasn't unexpected, but it still closed a cold hand around Methos's heart. Looked like the paranoia wasn't premature after all. "Then what happened?"

"Monday morning, I got paid a visit. They were waiting for me when I came in to open the place. Suits, you know? They roughed me up, asked me about your friend. I didn't have much to tell them, so they took their merchandise and strongly suggested I get into another line of work."

"Just like that," Amanda said doubtfully.

"It helps if they think you're a paranoid crackpot who nobody takes seriously, but trust me, they were persuasive."

"Okay," Methos said, "one last question." His mouth was dry, and he found he was steeling himself against possible disappointment. "The mutual friend. I need to know who it was. It could be important."

For a long second, the guy said nothing. He glanced at Amanda, then back at Methos—then finally shrugged. "Not really a friend, more like we've got an understanding. You could say we used to work together, but that was a long time ago."

Methos showed him the most recent photo from Matthew McCormick's Watcher file. "This the guy?"

Reilly blinked; the momentary recognition was unmistakable. Methos exchanged a glance with Amanda and put the photo away. "Good enough. Thank you, Mike, you've been very helpful." He gestured toward front door, and Amanda nodded and started toward it.

"Wait a sec, don't you want to see the bugs?"

They stopped; Methos turned back. "I thought you said they took them."

"They did, but I got scans first. I've got 'em on my server."

"And I take it you didn't share this with your previous visitors."

"That would be a no. Don't ask, don't tell, you know what I'm saying?"

"So why are you telling us?"

Reilly showed the hint of a grin. "I like your taste in reading material," he said, and jerked a thumb toward the counter. Methos followed the direction of the gesture and saw a small security monitor; it showed the back room of the store, the computer desk, and the stack of newsletters beside it.

Methos looked over at Amanda. "It could be useful." To Reilly, he said, "How fast can you get them?"

"Give me two minutes," he said, starting toward the back.

"Go with him," said Amanda, at the same moment Methos said, "I'll go with him."

Reilly was as good as his word. He made Methos wait in the doorway while he entered passwords, then copied the files onto a CD, and in under two minutes it was done. As they waited for the disk to finish burning, Methos's eyes fell again on the back issues of the _Lone Gunman._ Small world sometimes.

"Did you see the November issue?" Reilly asked, seeing the direction of his look. "The one about Saddam Hussein and Monica Lewinsky?"

Just then, Methos's mobile buzzed. For a second, he was actually grateful for the interruption. "What's up?"

"It's me," Joe said. "We've got company, my friend."


	12. Chapter 12

The disk had finished copying. Methos took a swift mental inventory of their position, mapping the store and the adjacent streets in his mind's eye. "How many?" he asked, his eyes falling on Mike Reilly, who put the CD into a plastic case and handed it to him.

"Four of them, dark blue sedan, headed your way."

"That was fast," he said, avoiding the obvious question of how they'd been found. Maybe they'd caught on to Macklin's sleight of hand. Maybe Reilly had sent a signal and then offered to copy the files to keep them here, or maybe they'd had surveillance on the store, and Reilly was what he seemed. It didn't matter now. There'd be time for maybes later.

"What is it, what's going down?" Reilly asked. Methos ignored him and thought fast. Almost two hundred yards of busy parking lot stretched between Joe's vantage point and the store's entrance. They'd case the van, but they wouldn't be looking for a second car—not yet.

"Joe, listen to me. Can you handle the car on your own?"

"Sure, long as I don't have to do any stunt driving."

"Good, then go now, while they're focused on us. Get to the rendezvous point, and we'll meet you there." He ended the call, counting on Joe to see that it was the only chance they had to salvage this thing. Worst case scenario, at least one of them would slip the net, and they'd still have a hole card.

Now, time to see what he could do about trying for a better hand.

As if reading his thought, Amanda materialized in the doorway. "Trouble out front."

"So I hear. Joe spotted them pulling up." He handed her the disk. "Go out the back. Meet up with him at the rendezvous point, and I'll go out the front and draw their fire." He forestalled her protest. "Look, we don't have time to argue. If I don't make it there in fifteen minutes, you two go to the safehouse and wait there."

"What about you?"

"You let me worry about that."

"You think you can draw four of them off all by yourself and live to tell about it?"

"We slipped them once. I can do it again."

"Well, maybe it's escaped you, but we had help!"

"And I have a lot of experience with disappearing. Trust me, Amanda, it's the only way."

She looked like she wanted to argue, but her eyes said she knew he was right. At last, she tucked the disk into the back of her pants and nodded once. As she was turning away, he stopped her.

"Just so we're clear. They can't be allowed to come after us."

"Not a problem." At his look, her shoulders set. "They took MacLeod. As far as I'm concerned, the gloves came off a long time ago."

He nodded, and watched as she slipped out the back.

"You'd better get out, too," he told Reilly, who had made no move to stop her. "And if you're smart, you'll keep going and don't look back." He didn't wait to see if Reilly heeded him, but went through into the front of the store, keeping low as he made his way toward the door.

As he neared the front, he could see the car across the street. Two men got out on the far side; one disappeared off to the left, probably to cover the alley, while the driver moved toward the parking lot and their parked van. The two on this side waited for a break in the traffic, then headed straight for him, weapons drawn.

Methos sent a swift, fervent prayer after Amanda and took cover behind the counter.

He'd barely made it there when the front window shattered, and for a second he thought he'd been hit with grapeshot, stinging needles peppering his face and neck. Splinters of plastic, wood, and glass fell away under his fingertips, and he realized they'd shot out the window with something high-powered enough to go right through the display case. Obviously, subtle was not in their game plan, or else why not shoot the lock off the front door—?

Something metallic hit the concrete floor, and rolled. A canister. He swore, already moving.

Millennia-honed survival instincts refined by adrenaline kept him moving as the noxious gas started to spread. The briefest of glances told him the positions of the two gunmen, and he fired his own gun at the front windows, four quick rounds to take out as much of the glass as possible. He registered his adversaries's momentary recoil and was already in motion again, leaping through the gap on the right and into the street, aiming for the closest of the two. His eyes burned fiercely and tears blinded him, but he didn't let that stop him, just let momentum carry him headlong into his attacker, knocking the man backwards into the road.

The advantage of surprise and inertia made it almost too easy. They hit the ground hard. White-hot pain smashed into Methos's knuckles as the hand he'd locked around the guy's wrist smashed into the asphalt, but he was ready for it. His opponent's weapon was still skating across the road when Methos brought the 9mm up between them and fired, point blank, into the man's heart.

He rolled away from the second gunman, not waiting to see the life go out of the first one's eyes, using momentum to carry him into a crouch on the other side of the road. As he moved, a bullet ripped through his coat under his arm, but missed hitting him; he felt its searing friction and realized with detachment that the tear gas canister still discharging inside the store had probably saved him. Upwind of it now, he could still feel the harsh burn of it in his eyes and throat, but it wouldn't incapacitate him, while the second operative seemed to be struggling. It bought him a precious few seconds to locate the third, bearing down on him from the direction of the van.

His knife was in his hand even as he registered the threat, and he uncurled his arm like a whip, the motion as quick and natural as thought. The blade found the soft hollow of the man's throat and buried itself there to the hilt, taking down its target, the man dead before he hit the pavement.

It cost Methos. The pain of a gunshot exploded in his left shoulder, and it took everything he had to hold on to his pistol. His head snapped around and he scrambled back, more shots whistling past him as he searched for the remaining gunman in the spreading smoke, knowing he was too far from cover and trying to get his gun into his right hand without dropping it. Mercifully, the light had changed, and traffic started to speed past, buying him a moment's respite. For long seconds he couldn't see, pain blinding him—it felt like the shot had shattered his shoulder joint and maybe half his collarbone. Moving as best he could, he tried to spot the gunman between the rushing cars without exposing himself to another shot. There—

A rush of Immortal awareness raised the hair on the back of his neck. It was the only warning he got as something dropped and landed, hard, on his opponent. No, not something: Amanda.

Methos's hand tightened on his pistol, pain forgotten as a surge of adrenaline made his heart race. Amanda! Damn her—

She'd jumped down from the roof—a height of at least twenty feet—knocking the guy to the ground, but he still had his weapon and would overpower her in seconds at close quarters. Heedless of his damaged shoulder, Methos dodged an oncoming truck and plunged forward, but he was too late. The gunman rolled, twisting one leg between Amanda's and pinning her with his weight, bringing his gun up and pressing the muzzle between her breasts.

His eyes locked with Methos's, a dangerous glitter in his green eyes that said he enjoyed his work a little too much. "Right there," he ordered, "or she's history."

Methos stopped, and it was as he did that he realized two things. First, there was something awkward about the way the man moved. It took him a split second to realize why: he had an artificial arm. And second—the pain and chaos had kept him from fully registering it, but he was almost certain now. This man was pre-Immortal.

"This keeps getting better and better," he muttered. His eyes flickered to Amanda's. Barely twenty feet separated them. He had a clear shot, but they only had a few minutes at best, and he needed the guy in good enough shape for interrogation. "Amanda—" he said by way of apology.

"Do it!" she said, and he squeezed the trigger.

His shot hit its mark, plunging into the man's upper arm with matter-of-fact accuracy. At the same moment, Amanda grabbed the guy's gun hand and held onto it with both of hers, preventing him from returning fire—with the unfortunate side-effect that she took the shot herself, more or less directly to the heart. Methos was already moving, making it count.

The struggle was a short one. In moments, he had disarmed their attacker, wrapped an arm around his throat, and dragged him clear of Amanda's body. Not that she was around at the moment to care. He took swift reconnaissance of the street, but saw no sign of the fourth operative. Amanda must have taken care of him. I owe you one, he thought, sparing her a glance and hoping she was as quick to revive as he remembered.

Coughing a little from the burn of the dissipating gas, he dropped his captive against the curb and crouched beside him, pressing the muzzle of his weapon into the guy's midsection. Pain had twisted the arrogance out of the other man's face, but couldn't quite snuff it out of his eyes. They watched him with the hatred and cunning of a trapped animal, waiting to see what he'd do next. "Hurts, does it?" Methos said without sympathy. "It's going to hurt a lot more if you don't tell me something I need to know, and fast."

"There's nothing I could tell you that would do you any good."

"You let me be the judge of that."

Even as he said it, the scent of ozone and burned wool reached him over the acrid burn of the smoke; he felt the last curls of electricity licking over his shoulder, his own gunshot wound aching as it healed. Seeing it, the man's eyes widened.

"You're one of them."

A cold stillness closed down around Methos then. It spread outward from his heart, which started to beat with a slow, heavy rhythm like distant drums. He closed a hand around the man's throat, pressing his thumb against the most vulnerable pressure point. "And what would you know about that?" The flicker of fear in green eyes brought him some small amount of satisfaction, but it was still matched by defiance, and his captive said nothing. Methos pressed harder.

"You're way out of your league," the man said finally, panting from the pressure. "You're running out of time, and you don't even know what you're dealing with."

"Well, then, I suggest you start filling me in, before I decide to acquaint you with the true human capacity for pain."

The other man grinned fiercely despite his obvious discomfort. "I doubt there's much you could teach me. But it doesn't matter anyway—it's too late for your friend. For all of you."

Methos's grip tightened. "What do you know about him?" His captive made a choking sound and started to struggle again. "What do you know?" Without warning, desperation and fury knotted in Methos's stomach. He let go of the death grip he held on the other man's throat and shoved the man's head into the ground, the crack of bone meeting cement sending a shiver of satisfaction through him. It only whetted a hunger he'd kept leashed for too long; watching his prey gasp and cough like a landed fish, he felt the overwhelming desire to reach inside the bastard's brain and wrench the information he needed from it. This man had seen Duncan with his own eyes, Methos was sure of it. He'd seen him heal, up close and personal, and knew what it meant. Had he been in that parking garage?

As soon as the thought came to him, Methos knew he was right, and the rage welled up in him like a bitter spring, flooding his senses. "Where did you take him, you son of a bitch?" he snarled, his fist connecting with soft tissue and bone, crimson blooming under the blow. The scent of blood and the sharp taste of pain washed over his tongue, and he lashed out again, not caring that the man's teeth had torn his skin, not caring that he might have broken something in his hand. He barely registered the fact that he could hear distant sirens, or that the light was fading from his captive's eyes. "Tell me!"

He didn't know how many blows he rained down on that smug face before Amanda's gasp for air brought him back to himself and he stopped, fist frozen in midair. Blood and contusions nearly rendered the operative unrecognizable; the man was unconscious, he realized. Shaking, he let his hand fall and looked over at Amanda. She sat up, inspecting the hole in her sweater and taking in the damage he'd wrought without comment. She didn't have to say anything. It was in her eyes.

Methos looked away. He drew a steadying breath and checked the unconscious man's pupils, then felt for a pulse. Still breathing, at least. Not that he deserved it. "I thought I told you to get out of here," he said, his voice sounding ragged even to him. He started checking the gunman's pockets, feeling inside his jacket for ID, a phone, anything. Aside from a spare magazine, he came up empty—until he felt under the body, wincing as he scraped his bleeding knuckles. Something was hidden in the back lining of the jacket.

"Funny," she shot back, "I missed the part where you said, 'Thank you, Amanda, for saving my ass.'" She got to her feet, hurriedly buttoning her coat over her sweater to hide the hole. The sirens were getting closer. "Well, are you coming?"

Methos ignored that. The object he'd found felt like a silencer, but when he pulled it free, the touch of a button made a six-inch spike spring out of the handle.

"Nice toy," Amanda quipped, "but I don't think they'll let us keep it in prison."

Still searching, Methos cut her off. "He knows something. He saw me heal, and he knew what he was seeing." In the spirit of paranoia, he checked for a Watcher tattoo: nothing.

"Does he know he's—?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Amanda crouched down beside him, studying the unconscious man with a troubled frown. "What the hell is going on here, Methos? It's not him, but for a second there, I could have sworn—" The rumble of an approaching train made her break off. Over it, the sirens wailed louder, only a few blocks away now. Their eyes met.

"We can't leave him," Methos said evenly.

"We're out of time. They'll have us surrounded in a minute."

"Then we take him with us. Half an hour with him and I can—"

She leapt to her feet. "There's no time! Either we get out of here without him, or we stay and get caught and it's all over."

Live. Fight another day. This man had been in the parking garage that night—Methos knew it. Frustration blinding him, he got to his feet.

Without another word, they ran.

Not a moment too soon. They'd made it inside the elevated train stairway entrance when the sirens passed, followed by the screeching of tires. Overhead, the rumbling died down and they could hear the train pulling to a stop. Out of breath, Methos exchanged a look with Amanda. "We're never gonna make it."

She smiled. "Have a little faith!" And so saying, she opened a zipper pocket on her knapsack and pulled out two little cards, handing him one. It was a MetroCard.

They took the stairs two at a time.

* * *

On the train, Queens Boulevard slipping away below them, Methos turned to her.

"What were you talking about back there? 'It's not him,' you said."

Amanda glanced up momentarily from where she was adjusting her coat, trying to keep the bloody hole in her sweater concealed. The coat was a single-button affair, more fashionable than practical, and barely served the purpose. "You're kidding, right?"

Methos remembered belatedly that she wasn't the only one with unseemly holes in her clothing, and put his hand over the one in his sleeve. He glanced around the car, but was gratified to see the handful of passengers were all experienced New Yorkers, carefully practicing eye contact avoidance with great determination. He dropped his voice another notch, turning so his body concealed the worst of the damning evidence. "Let's take it as writ that I don't feel much like playing practical jokes at the moment."

"Okay, so you're not kidding." A little vertical line appeared between her perfectly manicured brows, and she studied his eyes. "You never met Cory Raines, I take it."

"No, never had the pleasure, I'm afraid."

"Well, take it from someone who has, that guy was a dead ringer for Cory. Looks, voice, everything. Well, except the—" she gestured with her elbow "—you know."

A dead ringer for Cory Raines? Methos frowned sharply. Cory Raines, who happened to be another old friend of Mac's? "What the hell would someone like Raines be doing mixed up in this?"

"Damned if I know. Not like this whole thing isn't crazy enough, right? But it isn't him, just somebody who could be his twin brother."

"Are you sure? What about some kind of hypnosis? He could have been drugged, manipulated somehow—" Cassandra, he thought, before the words were half out of his mouth, before he even had a chance to think about whether she would be capable of it.

But Amanda shook her head. "No, I'm sure, it's not him. Cory has a cute little scar on his right eyebrow, right here. This guy? No scar. And definitely not Immortal—not yet, anyway. He didn't heal when you shot him." Or when I beat him unconscious, Methos thought, his hand in his pocket still sticky with the blood. The train started to slow, and Amanda put out a hand to hold on. "Besides, a girl knows these things. Trust me, it wasn't him. I don't know, maybe— maybe it's just coincidence, you know?"

"Right, and when was the last time you heard of two Immortals who happened to look exactly alike? Immortals don't have brothers, Amanda—twin or otherwise." And if he didn't have reason to know that, who did?

The train stopped, and they looked at each other, each seeing their own perplexity looking back at them. If they were lucky, Joe had said, they'd find some more pieces of the puzzle.

Lucky was not the word Methos would choose to describe it.

* * *

Even sick as he was with the knowledge that he'd let their best lead slip through their fingers, Methos felt better when he saw Joe Dawson waiting for them, right where he was supposed to be. He'd half-expected police cruisers or another goon squad—or worse, nothing, no sign of Joe or the car he'd been driving, just another trail of unanswered questions and false hopes. It was only seeing him there, parked thirty feet from the stairwell and seemingly unharmed, that he realized how much he'd been bracing himself for it.

They'd already agreed Amanda was the most qualified driver for any sort of getaway scenario, so Methos took the back seat. "All I can say," Joe said as they got in, "is I hope the other guys look worse than you two, because you both look like hell."

Amanda pulled off her gloves, checking the mirrors. "We're still in one piece, that's all that counts, right? I wish I could say the same for my sweater. This thing cost me a bundle."

"Well, for the record, next time we come up with a plan that doesn't involve me leaving you two behind, because I don't think my heart can take it."

"It is," Amanda said, and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, _"really_ good to see you, Joe." She started the engine, and waited for a dozen or so cars to come and go from the busy parking lot before she pulled out onto the road, heading away from the scene of the crime. "So, what happened, do we know?"

"They must have had some kind of surveillance tripwire set up around the store. Alec and Bonnie made it out okay, and our decoys at the airport reported in, too."

Amanda sighed with obvious relief. "I wasn't this paranoid even when the Watchers were trying to kill me. No offense, Joe."

"None taken. So you want to tell me what the hell happened back there?"

As Amanda gave him the highlights, Methos watched the storefronts and apartment buildings and parking lots go by, frustration and residual adrenaline burning in him. He couldn't help feeling they'd missed the one chance they might have had to find out what had happened to Duncan. That self-important little prick had known, Methos had seen it in his eyes. He'd seen it and it had blinded him, and that loss of control had cost him the best chance he'd had to find out the truth. Not again, he told himself.

But the bastard hadn't known as much as he'd wanted Methos to believe. He hadn't known they were Immortals, for one thing. A sharp thread of hope twisted inside Methos at that, but he suppressed it ruthlessly. It might mean anything, and too many ugly scenarios flickered through his mind to make speculation bearable.

 _It's too late for your friend. For all of you._

 __"—but that's not the best part," Amanda was saying as they pulled on to the expressway, heading north. "One of the guys in the car—the one Methos questioned—he knows about Immortals. He saw Methos heal from a bullet wound and he knew what he was seeing. He'd seen it before." She glanced at Methos in the mirror. "We had to make a run for it before we could find out why, but it gets better, Joe. This guy was the mirror image of Cory Raines, and—you ready for this? If he keeps up his current lifestyle, it's more than likely he's going to be one of us."

"One of— an Immortal, you mean?" She nodded. "What the hell?"

"Yeah, that's what we thought. And before you ask, yes, I'm sure it wasn't him."

But Joe was deep in thought, fingers rubbing slowly against his mouth. "I don't know how, but he's got to be connected."

For the first time, Methos spoke. "Connected to what?"

Joe looked back over his shoulder. "To McCormick. Back in the 13th century, Matthew of Salisbury was the teacher of a guy they called Corwin o' the Green—current alias, Cory Raines. You don't think it's coincidence, do you?"

Methos digested that, and met his gaze levelly. "I think it's safe to say, no." _You're running out of time, and you don't even know what you're dealing with._

"What the hell are we up against, anyway?" Joe asked.

"I wish I knew."

Joe turned toward the front again, chewing on that. "I wonder if he knows?" he said after a minute. "That he's Immortal, I mean."

Methos found himself unable to mitigate the bitterness he felt. "I sure as hell didn't tell him."

"I just thought of something," Amanda said, and from the way she said it, it wasn't something good. "You don't think—? It couldn't have been Cory, could it? The body you saw?" She looked over at Joe.

"No way to tell for sure. He wasn't on our list of MIAs, but at this point, I'm not ruling anything out. Whatever game these guys are playing, I think the only safe assumption we can make is that nothing is what it seems to be."

Truer words, Methos thought. But it was time to start changing that. He leaned forward, resting his arm on the passenger seat. "Amanda, you still have the disk?"

She patted her knapsack. "Right here, darling, never fear. Do you still think it'll help?"

"I think, Joe, I need to borrow your laptop."


	13. Chapter 13

As they merged onto the interstate from the bridge, Methos read over the email he'd composed and, satisfied, saved it with a definitive flourish. "That ought to do it."

Joe stopped making notes and looked over his shoulder. "You want to fill us in, or is this a one-man operation all of a sudden?"

"Just a message in a bottle, Joe. I'm going to send it to some friends who specialize in global conspiracy and news of the weird, which, I'm sure you'll agree, is the realm we seem to have crossed into."

"You sure you can trust them?"

Methos smiled faintly, remembering his first acquaintance with the particular talents of one Richard Langly some five years earlier. "Let's just say that if these guys wanted to make trouble for Watchers or Immortals, they could have done it long ago. Besides, thanks to our friend Clauberg, I have something they won't be able to resist. I've put together a rough outline of everything we know, together with Reilly's scans and a directory listing of what's on the Clauberg disks. Soon as we get to a land line, I'll send it. I'd say the chance of getting their hands on the private files of an ex-Nazi scientist should be more than enough to convince them to help us."

"Newsflash, buddy. You're not exactly inspiring my confidence."

"Then take it from me, when you don't know who to trust, your best bet is the guy who's more paranoid than you are."

"What about Cory?" Amanda asked. "Can we get in touch with him?"

Joe shot her a dark look. "You know as well as I do, he doesn't exactly keep a fixed address—and since you told him about the Watchers, he's played hell with everyone we've tried to assign him."

"Oh, come on, Joe. What was I supposed to do? He's a friend."

"Yeah, well, makes knowing his exact whereabouts a challenge. Soon as we get to the safehouse, I'll call Rawlings and see if we have a line on him." He hesitated. "I'm thinking maybe it's time we called in that favor with your friend Myers."

Methos looked up from the computer at the unfamiliar name. "Who he?"

Amanda met his eyes in the mirror, and she didn't look happy. "Bert Myers. He's my business partner, among other things. Used to be a spook, has serious contacts at the State Department, and probably any number of intelligence agencies. Not all of them legit, you can lay money on that, but I've seen him mobilize the Feds in record time when he needed to—the guy's got connections."

"Sounds to me like he's a bit of a wild card."

"Which is one reason I've been hoping we wouldn't have to get him involved." She glanced at Joe. "He's smart, though. He knows how to make things happen."

"Look," Joe said, "we're running on borrowed time, here, and we don't have the resources to stay ahead of these guys for long. Methos is right, we're gonna need all the help we can get. If this isn't the time to pull out all the stops, what is?"

Amanda sighed. "Can't argue with that, can I?"

On any other day, Methos might have made a pithy remark about what happened when you jammed a sharp stick into a nest of poisonous snakes. As it was, he found himself at the abrupt end of a long adrenaline burn, and even that pale attempt at gallows humor seemed like it would take more energy than he had. "How much longer till we get there, Joe?" he asked instead, calculating drive times back to D.C. The Geek Squad didn't trust the Watchers as far as they could throw them and would insist on an in-person meet.

"Not long now—maybe ten minutes." Joe looked back over his shoulder, meeting Methos's eyes. "You really think these guys can help?"

"What I think is that they've been playing in this particular sand box a lot longer than we have, and they're still around. That's got to count for something."

"So once they get the message, then what?"

"Then, we arrange a meeting. On their turf, most likely, which puts me close to home. In the meantime, you can work on Myers and Raines." Joe was already opening his mouth to protest, but Methos cut him off. "Don't waste your breath, okay? You'd only spook the hell out of them. Besides, we both know you're gonna have your hands full the second we walk through the door. It's only a matter of time before the organization is compromised, and you're the only person we've got who stands a chance of controlling the fallout." He countered Joe's scowl with a raised eyebrow. "You know I'm right."

"Doesn't mean I have to be happy about it."

"Believe me, you're not alone."

"Seems like we've been down this road before, with Kalas and that damned database. You'd think we'd have learned our lesson."

Methos sighed. "It's the way of the world, I’m afraid. A thousand people can't keep a secret forever. Even if you asked every Watcher on the planet to sign a blood oath and swear never to touch a computer, they'd still have phone records, electric bills, credit cards, plane tickets. Everyone leaves a footprint. There comes a point at which secrecy is an illusion—or worse, a liability. The Watchers are gonna have to evolve like everybody else, if they want to survive."

"Figures. And I coulda retired two years ago. Hindsight's a bitch, ain't it?"

At that, Amanda gave him a look. "Joe. Look who you're talking to."

Methos's lips quirked, and he looked out the window. His eyes followed the reflectors on the guard rail, but he wasn't really seeing them. Privately, he'd long suspected that the Watchers' days as a secret organization were numbered, but tradition didn't give way to change until circumstances forced it to. Joe would understand that, sooner or later, and do what had to be done. Survival wasn't about preserving the status quo, it was about adapting.

He'd once told Duncan the same thing.

* * *

 **_June, 1995_ **

The early summer day was so warm, and had drawn so many people out onto the sidewalks of Paris, that Methos and MacLeod had given in to the temptation of shirt sleeves and left their coats and swords in MacLeod 's car. It was parked within sight, some hundred feet from the café, but with Kalas permanently out of the picture and Amanda recently departed for points east, even Methos dared to hope they might enjoy a nice, relaxing lunch without trouble coming to call. Not, mind you, that he was inclined to lay money on it.

Meal finished, they sat facing the sidewalk within arm's reach of one another, talking in low voices, their legs stretched out under the tiny table, and Methos was all too aware of MacLeod's nearness, the careful distance between their bare arms. It didn't help that MacLeod was wearing a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the neck unbuttoned, his skin bronze against it. In the warm sunshine, their bellies full of good food and better wine, it was hard to remember why it was so important to guard against the attraction he'd felt from the first.

Shifting his gaze back to his companion, he caught MacLeod looking at him oddly.

"What?"

MacLeod dropped his gaze, and to Methos's fascination, his color rose. "You look different, that's all."

Methos suppressed a smile. His longer, grad-student hair had made him look deceptively young and vulnerable, as well he knew; MacLeod had fallen for it like so many others before him. The man had a lot to learn about the value of keeping a low profile. Now that it was getting warmer, though, Methos wouldn't miss the thick weight of it on his forehead. Besides, it was about time he started exposing MacLeod to some of his sharper edges.

"So, what will you do now?" MacLeod asked, with a studied effort at casual curiosity. A few weeks ago, Methos might not have perceived the more personal interest underneath the question.

Trying not to speculate on the nature of that interest, Methos shrugged, and sipped his mineral water. "No reason not to stay in Paris. I'll defend before my committee in the fall. In the meantime, it's back to the books."

MacLeod's eyes fell briefly to Methos's left wrist, then he smiled a little and looked up. "Seems strange, doesn't it?"

"What's that?"

"Everything back to normal. Business as usual. A few days ago, we thought it was all over."

"And here we are, having lunch in this lovely bistro, enjoying the sunshine."

MacLeod toyed with a grape stem, his brows drawing downward. "You're telling me this was all par for the course for you, is that it?"

"I'm telling you, gift horses are underrated. Steve Miller got it right—when given the choice, take the money and run." That brought the shadow of a laugh. Methos went on. "Kalas isn't the first person to wise up to the Watchers. It's only a matter of time. Sooner or later, the traditionalists are gonna lose out and the whole Watcher network is gonna go to computers and databases and cellular telephones, fair game for every hacker and junior league conspiracy theorist on the planet. Even Don couldn't resist the lure of having all that information at his fingertips. The Watchers' days are numbered," he said, "much more so than the higher-ups want to admit. Technology's clock is ticking. And when the Watchers go, the Game will change. Nothing you or I can do will prevent that. It's the nature of entropy."

"That doesn't worry you at all?" MacLeod asked, brow furrowed. "And don't give me that song and dance about the rise and fall of civilization."

"It's not a song and dance, Mac. It's the simple truth. You may think you can change the world, but when it comes right down to it, mankind survives because the one thing humans know how to do well is adapt. That goes double for our kind. I know it's hard to get your head around it—"

"Oh, because I'm so young and naïve, right?"

"Partly, yes, if you must know. But also because of who you are." He saw the guardedness come back into MacLeod's profile, the touch of stubborn resistance in his stiff neck. "Look, I'm not trying to change your worldview, here. You did ask."

MacLeod responded to his tone, relaxing a little. "I did, didn't I?"

"Life goes on, is all I'm trying to tell you. I mean, look at me. Smart money wouldn't have bet a wooden nickel on my chances when Kalas came to town, but here I am, watching the clouds go by on this lovely summer day, sharing this fine repast with you. Worrying about the future doesn't stop it from catching up to you. All it does is make you doubt your own instincts—and you know as well as I do, that's the one surefire way to ruin your chances of landing on your feet."

"Why do I get the feeling that's something you've never had a problem doing?"

"Probably because you are an excellent judge of character."

"In spite of being young, and naïve, and worrying too much."

"In spite of all that." Their eyes met sidelong in shared amusement, held a moment too long, and Methos was suddenly aware of how close their hands were, resting on the arms of their chairs. Careful, he told himself. Careful. He could feel his pulse beating at his throat, and wondered if it were visible. "Speaking of the future, what about you? What's next, d'you think?"

MacLeod sighed. "I've been thinking about that. It's been a while since I thought about the antiques business. I didn't think I'd go back to it any time soon, but it's funny—I miss it. The hunt, maybe. Using your hands to bring life back into something that's faded, so others can see the beauty that you see."

"Maybe it's not really the work you miss."

At that, MacLeod flashed him a wry smile. "You think?" He sobered, and turned his hand over, studying it as if a memory were written in the lines on his palm. His fingers closed absently around it. "It's not just because of Tessa," he said, very quietly. "It's been less than two years since Connor disappeared, and I already feel like I'm the only person left who remembers him. Rachel's gone. Darius. Now Fitzcairn. Connor has warehouses in New York, in Brussels—things we collected over more than half my lifetime, and they're sitting there collecting dust. I don't know what I'm waiting for."

Methos swallowed quietly, using his thumb to catch a tiny rivulet of condensation on his glass, studying the trail it made to keep his eyes from betraying anything. "Maybe you're not ready to give up hope. There's no law says you have to."

"Maybe."

They fell silent, and Methos risked a glance at MacLeod's profile, wondering whether circumstances would ever be such that Methos could tell him. And if he could, would he? Would Mac be able to stand knowing that a place like Sanctuary existed, and that his kinsman had chosen it to keep him safe? Or would he bring the whole ill-conceived plan crashing down on the Watchers' collective heads?

Questions for another day. He cleared his throat a little, straightening in his chair. "Well, I suppose we'd better go, before the owners start charging us rent."

MacLeod glanced at his pocket watch, looking surprised and a little embarrassed when he saw the time. "I guess we'd better."

Their eyes met again for a moment as they were getting up, as MacLeod was searching his pockets for keys, and Methos asked himself quietly what was happening here? Though of course, he knew. He'd known that first day, when MacLeod called him by name.

Not that he was going to do anything about it. Not yet. They had time. But there was something warm and fluttery in the pit of his stomach, and as they stepped out onto the sidewalk he gave in to it, letting himself look sidelong at MacLeod's mouth, the lush curves of it, let himself imagine, for a second, what it would feel like against his. What his tongue would taste like, warm with the wine, and sweet—

A handful of steps, it seemed, brought them to the car. MacLeod, chivalrous as the day was long, unlocked the passenger door before walking around to the driver's side. "Where to?" he said, broad hand resting on the car's roof.

Methos, getting his coat out of the front seat, smiled. "As a matter of fact, I think I'll walk. Good day for it and all."

"You sure?" And Methos thought he read the faintest hint of concern there, in the little furrow between his eyebrows. It made him feel like laughing.

"I'm sure."

Yes, definite butterflies, God help him. And he didn't even have the grace to feel embarrassed by it. Not today, anyway. Today he'd walk home in the sun and be glad he was alive, and in Paris, that his belly was full and time was on his side. Some things were better savored. Darius had been right about that.

"I'll see you, then," MacLeod said, and got into his car. As he pulled away, he lifted a hand in farewell, and Methos felt the gesture like a touch.

The laugh got the better of him at last. "Count on it," he said, to no one in particular. He started down the street. As he walked, he caught himself wondering if that new Moroccan place was as good as its press, and whether MacLeod had plans Friday night.

* * *

The sound of the car tires turning on gravel brought him back to the present. They were pulling up a long driveway toward a contemporary house on top of a little hill. It was set back from the road behind a sloping lawn dotted with daffodils, and looked wholly indistinct from its neighbors.

"Pull around to the carport," Joe said, and Amanda did as asked.

Methos didn't know the guy who met them at the door, but he recognized the type too well from the disapproving way he observed their approach, arms folded. He reminded Methos immediately of Nathan Stern, the research director in Paris who had once held a sword to his neck—superior, humorless, but not stupid. Judging by Joe's scowl, his assessment was close to the mark.

"This is a long haul for you, Louis," Joe said. "Didn't know they were sending a welcoming committee."

"I'm under orders to debrief you," the other man replied, and the way he said it implied that he wasn't just talking about Joe. His pale blue eyes swept over Methos, making an assessment of his own before shifting briefly to Amanda. Disapproval seemed to underscore his whole manner.

Joe stepped past him without waiting for him to invite them in. "Yeah, well, it's gonna have to wait. We got more important things to worry about. I'm sure you know who my friends are; Adam, Amanda, this is Louis Lassiter, Assistant Coordinator for the Northeast. And now that we've made the introductions, I need two secure lines out, someplace out of the way."

"Dawson—"

"Look, my friend, this is not the time for protocol. I don't know how much you've been told, but the survival of pretty much everyone you know depends on us staying one step ahead of the game. So are you going to help, or get in the way?"

After a long moment, Lassiter stepped aside. "Last two rooms on the right, end of the hall."

* * *

While Joe sequestered himself with the phone, Amanda stayed with Methos, watching him set up the laptop in the back bedroom. It was the work of only a few minutes to get it hooked up. He was aware of her looking over his shoulder as he pulled up the message he’d composed and sent it, encrypted, with a silent prayer that its recipients would be able to offer some hope.

"How'd you meet these guys, anyway?"

Methos gave a soft, short laugh. "If I tell you, you have to swear to me you won't breathe a word to Joe."

"Cross my heart and hope to never die."

He glanced at the door, lowering his voice another notch. "This is probably not the best place or time to be telling you this, but I bribed them to break into the Watcher network."

Her expression was worth it. Her mouth fell open and her eyes lit up, sparkling with sheer, wicked delight. "That's so perverse, I actually believe you. Why? When?"

Methos swiveled in his chair, and she sat on the edge of the desk facing him. "1994, right about the time Don and I started working on the database project. Everybody was moving to computers, and I wanted to know how vulnerable we were. Plus, there were certain things going on in the organization that I wasn't too sanguine about. It occurred to me that it might not be a bad idea to start thinking about putting a few precautions in place." He stopped, regarding her with a measuring look. "I really shouldn't be telling you this."

"Too late, now, bucko. Tell!"

Methos sighed. Amanda was not the person he would have chosen to keep this particular secret—or any secret, for that matter. But things being what they were, someone else besides him needed to know the score, and Joe would likely take his head with a butter knife before he'd managed half the story. "Right, so, I started poking around Usenet, learning the basics that every technologically savvy anarchist should know. In my travels, I found out about these guys. They were running a BBS, very popular with your garden variety hackers and conspiracy theorists. I decided to check it out. Imagine my surprise when I found out one of their pet crackpot theories involved genetically altered supermen who can't die walking among us."

Amanda's fascination intensified. "Seriously? How much did they know?"

"Enough. The hot debate at the time was whether the whole thing had been engineered by some shadowy government group, or extraterrestrials, but they had an awful lot of specifics. I decided a chat was in order. In the end, we came to an understanding: in return for some misdirection and discretion, I pointed them in the direction of the Watchers, and hired them to evaluate the network for hackable exploits. So far, the deal has been equitable all around."

"Not to mention," Amanda said shrewdly, "now you've got someone to watch the Watchers."

Methos grinned in spite of himself. "Bingo. And who better to keep an eye on things than a bunch of misfit geniuses who've already made it their life's work to play watchdogs of the weird? I mean, compared to Bigfoot, alien abductions, and Saddam Hussein's secret mandroid army, Immortals barely trip the radar."

"And you never told anybody. Not even MacLeod, I'll bet."

He shrugged. "Always keep a hole card or two, right? Never know when you might need one."

Amanda smiled, her admiration genuine. "I gotta hand it to you. Just when I think you're in danger of becoming a nice guy, you pull something like this out of your hat." She glanced at the computer. "So, how long do you think we'll have to wait?"

"These guys pretty much eat and sleep online, so it shouldn't take long."

"Just so we're clear, I'm coming with you. No more of this Lone Ranger crap. You're stuck with me."

"Does that mean I can call you Tonto?"

"Not if you plan on sleeping at night."

For about half a second, Methos considered trying to fight her on it, but he didn't really have it in him to go up against the determination in her set expression. Besides, she'd only remind him that she'd already saved his bacon at least once today.

His eyes fell on the bullet hole in her sweater. A glimpse of pale, unbroken skin showed beneath. She followed the direction of his look, amused.

"Yep, probably have to do something about that. Think they've got anything here in my size?"

He stuck a thumb through his own torn, blood-stiffened clothes. "I think we're both gonna be wearing Watcher hand-me-downs for the foreseeable future."

"I hear drab, dark, and paranoid is all the rage this year." But her eyes were serious now, too perceptive for comfort, and Methos knew he wasn't fooling her. "It's going to be okay, you know."

Methos's thin veneer of confidence faltered. He opened his hands, and realized only as he did so that he'd been gripping the arms of the chair until his fingers hurt. "He knew. I saw it in his eyes. He was there, in the parking garage—he knew."

"Maybe so."

"If I'd had five more minutes—"

"Methos. We did the right thing. A few seconds and they'd have had us."

 _But at least we'd know._ Methos bit the words back, swallowing. He made himself take a steadying breath, let it out. Amanda's unwavering gaze felt like a touchstone, approving him.

The familiar cadence of Joe's uneven tread made the floor creak in the hallway. "Everything okay in here?"

"We were discussing a visit to the wardrobe department," Amanda said, crossing her ankles.

"I got somebody coming by in about ten minutes with a car and the basics." Joe nodded toward the laptop. "Anything?"

Methos checked his inbox. "Not yet. Soon. What about you?"

"There's gonna be an emergency council tonight, soon as we can get the North American heads in one place. I'm waiting to hear about Donna Harris. Word on Cory is, he was last sighted in Bermuda boarding a flight to Rio day before yesterday."

"So he can't be mixed up in this." Amanda sounded as though she wasn't sure whether it was good news or not.

"Except it gets complicated, because the flight connected through Newark and Sao Paulo, and Rawlings lost him somewhere in transit. Which fits Cory's M.O. these days, but that doesn't really help us. How do you usually get in touch with him?"

"I don't. He gets in touch with me. When we met up in Seacouver, I hadn't seen him in years."

"Well, I put out the word that we're looking for him. Rawlings says he usually turns up on his own after a week or two, like it's a game. Says a few months ago, he thought he'd finally lost him for good. He was sitting in an airport bar, about to fly back to Chicago for reassignment, when here comes Raines himself—sits down across the table from him and buys him a drink. He said Cory gave him a hard time for giving up too easily."

Even Methos had to smile, and Amanda laughed, shaking her head. "That's Cory, all right."

Joe scowled. "Yeah, well, his timing coulda been better." The scowl turned into a grimace as he maneuvered to lower himself into the other chair without putting pressure on his injured shoulder. Amanda helped him, but it was Methos who got the warning growl. "Don't say it."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Joe," Amanda asked, "do you think we should try to get in touch with Duncan's friends? Try to warn them, so at least they can look out for trouble?"

Joe glanced at Methos and hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. "He hasn't exactly been Mr. Social Butterfly lately. Not since O'Rourke. I wouldn't know who to call—and even if I did, chances are, they're safer if we don't."

"He certainly thought so," Methos said, with more bitterness than he'd intended. Connor MacLeod had felt the same way, and look where it had gotten him: buried in a hole in the ground in Connecticut and no help to them now, when it might have counted.

"Well, what do you expect?" Amanda said, gesturing pointedly at Joe. "It gets old, after a while, people going after your friends to get to you."

"Yes, but the problem is, that doesn't change when you go off to play hermit in Tibet, or Kuala Lumpur, or SoHo. It just gets harder for them to watch your back." Methos bit off the last word, having said too much.

Joe's expression was wry, his tone surprisingly gentle. "I think you're preaching to the choir here, buddy."

If there was one thing about Joe Dawson that Methos loved wholeheartedly—and there were more than a few things that fit that description—it was that world-weary, ironic smile Joe offered at those moments when you most needed to laugh at yourself. Irresistibly conspiratorial, it seemed to imply that he had first-hand, personal knowledge of what a bitch life could be, and invited you to share the joke.

In spite of himself, Methos met that look and felt something relax inside of him, a pressure that had been clenched around his heart since those last moments in the street in Queens. "Right you are," he said at last, smiling a little. "As usual."

"Methos," Amanda broke in. She was looking at the computer. "I think your friends got the message."

* * *

Joe said goodbye to them at the kitchen door. Barely twenty minutes had elapsed since they'd read the cryptic reply—enough time for the other two to clean up a little and change into borrowed clothes while Joe put together basic supplies for the road. On the little porch at the side of the house, he handed Methos a paper sack that held bottles of water, apples, and protein bars, and another containing several boxes of 9mm rounds. To Amanda, he gave the car keys and an envelope of cash. Methos raised an eyebrow at him. "Think that's wise?"

Amanda tsked. "Be nice. Oh, wait, never mind, I forgot who I was talking to."

Joe grimaced. "Come to think of it, maybe I'm glad I won't be stuck in a car with you two for the next four hours."

"See?" said Methos. "There's always a bright side."

Joe looked from Methos to Amanda, feeling like it was a close thing whether he was really going to let them leave without him. "I'm gonna assume you're both fully aware of the shameless lies I'll write in your chronicles if you don't keep me in the loop."

"We'll be good," Amanda promised.

"And careful," Joe warned.

Methos nodded. "Good and careful. And thrifty. And I'll even help old ladies across the street. Oh, hey, look, there's one right here!"

Amanda gave him a killing look. "You think you're funny."

His throat tight, Joe covered by making a sound of disgust. "Will you two get the hell out of here, already?"

Instead, Amanda turned to him and put her arms around his neck, her cheek cool against his. "See you soon," she said, hugging tight for long seconds. "All of us will. Like old times, right?"

For that one moment, he believed it. "Just like old times," he said roughly, hugging her back. His eyes found Methos's and he saw the hope there, too, a fierce, shuttered candle flame stubbornly burning.

Methos didn't look away, and there was an awkward moment when Amanda let go. Joe forced a small laugh. "I'd hug you, too, if you weren't such a pain in my ass—"

"Will you shut up?" Methos said, already closing the space between them. He wrapped his free arm around Joe, pulling him close. He was all angles and hard muscle, nothing like Amanda, and Joe felt his strength. The kind that endured.

It helped. He breathed again when Methos let him go, and swallowed hard, trying not to lose it. The last few days had taught him all over again what he'd known for a long time: that family was where you made it.

"Time to go," Methos said. "Shall we?" He held his hand out to Amanda, who put the keys in it.

Joe watched them as far as the end of the driveway. It had been a long, long time since he'd prayed for anything, but when the curve of the hill hid them from view, he closed his eyes for a moment before turning back into the house.


	14. Chapter 14

_**12:36 p.m.** _

As the miles unwound behind them, Amanda's thoughts returned to the three names on Joe's legal pad, all question marks. MacLeod. McCormick. And Cory, now, somehow mixed up in all this.

No matter how she turned it over in her head, she couldn't make it make sense. Methos was right—Immortals didn't have brothers, twin or otherwise. In all her long life and in everything Rebecca had taught her, she'd never heard of such a thing, and yet she was just as sure that the guy who'd shot her was no one she knew. She'd seen people hypnotized, drugged, you name it, but what she'd seen in that familiar face hadn't been any of those things. No, what she'd seen there was a lifetime of hate and bitterness, and only a fierce, stubborn streak of defiance to balance the carefully concealed despair that ran underneath like a deep underground river. There wasn't a hateful or bitter bone in Cory's body, and she couldn't imagine him capable of a look like that in any lifetime.

She glanced over at Methos, intent on the road, his own formidable stubborn streak standing between him and that same rage and despair. There'd been a time not so long ago when she couldn't have imagined it of him, either. Sometimes, people surprised you.

"So," she asked at last, "what do you think's going to happen?"

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean, what's our best case scenario, here? Let's say your friends can help us. Let's say they've got some idea of who we're dealing with. What then?"

Methos glanced in the mirror and changed lanes, angling toward the southbound interstate. "Then we apply pressure. Between the three of us, we've got a pretty impressive network of resources. I'm willing to bet we can manage one hell of a big lever if we can figure out where to stick it."

"And then what? What happens if we do get MacLeod back? Whoever these guys are, they're not going to just forget all about Immortals."

"One thing at a time, don't you think?"

His tone was a touch too flippant. Amanda looked at him sharply, her radar pinging.

"Tell me you're not thinking what I think you're thinking."

"I sincerely doubt it."

"Tell me you're not seriously thinking about _trading_ yourself for him—"

He laughed, a short, brittle sound. "Don't be ridiculous."

But he wasn't fooling her, not any more. She'd seen what he wanted her to see for a lot of years, but that had ended in a train yard outside Paris, and both of them knew it. "You're crazy if you think for one minute that he'd stand for it. You have to know that." He said nothing. "Methos."

"Drop it, okay? Nobody's trading anybody for anybody. You've obviously mistaken me for MacLeod—believe me, I have never suffered from a martyr complex, and I don't intend to start."

She stared at him shrewdly for a long minute, wondering how many of his own smoke screens he still believed after all these years.

He shot her an irritated look. "What?"

"You know, I don't get you. Either of you. You'd rather stick bamboo under your own fingernails than admit you give a damn about each other most of the time, but as soon as things get dicey, it's all full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes. What's the point of making yourselves miserable when it's not doing either of you a damn bit of good?"

"I don't have the slightest idea—"

"Oh, can it, Methos. Look, I am the last person on earth to be lecturing anybody about how love's supposed to work, but I do know there comes a point where you have to say the hell with it and stop fighting the inevitable."

"Amanda—" His expression never changed, but his hands gripped the steering wheel as if he could stop her from saying more by throttling it into submission.

"What?" She knew she was treading on dangerous ground, but it was past time somebody said it. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"Fine. You're wrong."

"Oh, right. I don't have the slightest idea what I'm talking about. Give me a break, Methos. I've been around too long and know you both too well for that to fly. What the hell are you so afraid of, anyway?"

Some critical fault line in his brittle armor gave way, and he paled as though she'd struck him. "How can you ask me that?" He shot her a bitter glance, half anger, half disbelief. "You, of all people."

"It's a simple question." His eyes narrowed, and she remembered belatedly that picking a fight with Methos was not unlike picking a fight with a pit viper.

"Where's Wolfe, then? Why isn't he here with you? Since you know so much about it."

"You leave Nick out of this. We're not talking about me, we're talking about you and MacLeod."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize there were _rules_."

"Methos—" She heard the exasperation in her voice, and brought herself up short. Impressive. He'd put her on the defensive faster than she would have believed possible, and it had very nearly worked.

He said nothing, his lips pressed tight, his profile sharp and impenetrable as a knife blade. Only the quickness of his breath gave him away, and that only because she'd spent so much time in close quarters with him the last few days. Something pressed on her heart.

"Methos."

"Drop it, Amanda. Not now. Okay?"

She blinked, and felt the something squeezing at her throat. "Yeah. Okay."

His expression never changed, but she saw his hands relax a fraction. She started to say something else, some kind of apology. The words didn't come, and after a long moment, she turned to look back at the road.

Her heart beat slow and heavy, measuring out the distance they traveled in silence for a while as the miles sped under the tires. The day had turned clear, the sky a dazzling blue in all directions, and the sunshine that slanted in the windows felt like it might stick around long enough to warm things up a bit.

As they left New York behind and crossed into New Jersey, Amanda thought about Nick, so far from home, and wondered what he was doing now. Wondered whether he'd be safe when all this was over. She held no illusions that he'd do as she'd asked, and Myers didn't exactly have a great track record when it came to resisting Nick's considerable force of will. Which was exactly why she was still putting off calling Myers until it was absolutely necessary.

Four hours, give or take, till they reached the meet. And in the best of all possible worlds, how much longer might it be before they managed to put pressure on the right nerve? What kind of pressure had their adversaries been using against MacLeod all this time? It seemed to argue for his resistance that they'd operated freely as long as they had, but she could imagine all too clearly what cost he might have paid.

Worse was the thought of the alternative—that they weren't interrogating him at all, but experimenting, trying to find out what made him tick. Amanda shuddered. Most Immortals she knew feared that fate somewhere deep down, even if they never talked about it; Duncan had been through one such ordeal, and she knew he still had nightmares about it sometimes. A pure, cold flame burned deep within her, still and bright with the certainty of what she would do about it, if the opportunity presented itself.

"Don't think about it," Methos said, breaking into her grim thoughts.

Amanda closed her eyes, and gave a little shake of her head, as if she could shake herself free of the too-vivid images. "I know, it's just—"

"So, don't. Think about it," he insisted.

"I'm not." She drew a breath, then said it again with a little more conviction. "I'm not."

"Good." He glanced over his shoulder, and moved into the passing lane. "Why don't you find something on the radio?"

A soft laugh escaped her. "Think it'll help?"

"It's either that or Twenty Questions, and I've been assured by reliable sources that that's not a game I should be allowed to play in civilized company."

"I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

He grimaced, as though she'd caught him at something embarrassing. "Don't tell Joe. I've got a reputation to maintain."

* * *

The weather turned outside of Baltimore, and a cold, thin rain began to spatter the windshield as they joined the heavy westbound traffic into D.C. Methos turned on the wipers, glancing at the dashboard clock. They still had about half an hour. More than enough time, as long as half the drivers in the city didn't decide to use the rain as an excuse to slam into the other half.

Beside him, Amanda dozed against the window. She'd been up most of the night, and jet lag had finally caught up with her; he'd quietly changed from NPR to an oldies station when he realized, and now Janis Joplin sang _take another little piece of my heart now baby,_ the radio turned low.

"Amanda."

He touched her shoulder, and she woke instantly, watchful and alert.

"We're here?"

"Very nearly."

He watched her take in the rain, the time, the rush hour traffic. She smoothed her hair and straightened in her seat. "You sure you still want to do this alone? It's not too late to change the plan."

"You'd only distract them." And wasn't that the understatement of the year? "Trust me, we'll get more out of them if it's just me they're dealing with. They're going to be jumpy enough as it is, and time is of the essence. Better to keep things simple, let them deal with someone they know. Besides, you said yourself, you'll be able to hear everything. If I get in any trouble, you'll know about it."

"Fair enough. But anything sounds fishy to me and I'm right behind you."

Methos left her in the parking lot near the amphitheater, after she made a fuss over checking the tiny transmitter under his lapel and the clarity of her headset receiver. Heading into the park, he wrapped his coat tighter against the chill rain. The Clauberg disks were tucked in one inside pocket of the borrowed pea coat; in the other rested his 9mm. He trusted these guys further than most, but a bit of extra insurance never hurt anybody.

Making for the footpath beside the road, he felt a frisson of nervous energy. They'd won themselves a little space to breathe, to maneuver. For the first time, he felt like they were half a step ahead of the game, like they might be close to putting enough pieces together to make a difference. The Gunmen were a wild card, and he intended to play them for all they were worth.

The rain had dwindled to a steady mist, the temperature dropping by the time he turned north along the creek. Though sunset was still some hours away, the gloom had settled heavily under the trees, a thick, gray twilight that made it hard to see much on the path ahead. It shouldn't be far, according to the map. There was the bridge, now. And—yes, to the left of it, he could see picnic tables.

As he stepped off the bridge, three shapes materialized out of the gloom.

"At last we meet," said the shortest and oldest of the three, his raincoat and whole manner somehow suggesting they were all players in a film noir, and that further conversation might require a secret code involving ravens screeching at midnight. Then he grinned, a suddenly boyish expression, and Methos couldn't help liking him immediately. "So, come on, can we see it?"

"It?"

"Your Watcher tattoo," said the lanky blond man, arguably the geekiest of the three. "We've never seen one up close and personal."

"Langly," said the third man, his voice soft, but firm.

"Ditched it, I'm afraid," Methos said, apologetic.

Langly winced. "Ouch."

The third man, neat and understated, offered his hand. Methos took it. "John Byers. That's Langly, this is Frohike. Our apologies for the location."

"Don't worry about it. I appreciate you meeting me." Where the other two matched his mind's-eye view fairly well, Byers might have passed for a high school math teacher, with his chestnut hair and beard and neatly pressed suit. Only the piercing intelligence in his mild, deep-seeing blue eyes hinted at greater knowledge of the world than most.

"So, what's the story?" said Frohike. "I thought you were done with the Watchers. How'd you get mixed up in all this?"

"The Immortal who's missing is a friend of mine. I owe him."

Frohike's curiosity sharpened. "That sounds like a story in itself."

"A long one, and I'm afraid I don't have time for it at the moment. What I need to know is who exactly we're dealing with. I'm hoping you can help."

Byers rubbed at his chin, looking troubled. "Tell us about the one-armed operative. You left him alive?"

"It wasn't my first choice, believe me." Byers and Frohike exchanged a look. "You know him?"

"Alex Krycek," said Byers. "Russian by birth, possibly trained by the KGB, but his loyalties change faster than the weather on Mt. Washington. Allegiance is... unclear, at the moment. He's served as an assassin for certain international shadow operations in the past, but we can't be sure who's pulling his strings now. Word is, he's gone into business for himself."

"Could he be connected in any way to an Immortal named Cory Raines, alias Robin Matthews?"

Byers looked even more troubled at that. "Connected how?"

"Connected as in, bears a striking resemblance to."

Langly snapped his fingers. "Wait a minute. Robin Matthews—isn't he the Fort Knox guy?" At Byers' look, he went on. "Remember, back in the 70s? What was his name, Durrell? Guy claimed that somebody had stolen most of the gold from Fort Knox, and that Johnson engineered a big cover-up to keep it quiet. One version of the story pinned it on a master thief who went by the name Robin Matthews, but he disappeared in 1967, and nobody ever proved it."

"And you're saying this Matthews is an Immortal?" asked Byers.

Frohike chuckled. "Man, this stuff keeps getting weirder, doesn't it?"

Byers was less amused. "I don't know what he has to do with Krycek, but I'm willing to bet we wouldn't like the answer."

"Forget about Matthews, then," Methos cut in. "Tell me about Krycek. You know where I can find him?"

Byers shook his head wryly, and Frohike gave a short laugh. "He's pretty much the toughest guy on the planet to pin down."

"What about these people he works for?"

"Worked for," Byers corrected. "Most of them are dead now. The ones who are left... They've gone to ground."

"But you have to admit it fits their M.O.," said Frohike. "An Immortal super-soldier would be right up their alley."

"I agree, I'm just saying, getting to them is going to be even tougher than it was before."

Methos suppressed a surge of impatience. "There has to be something you can tell me that will get me closer to these guys. You know what's at stake."

Byers reached into his coat and pulled out a manila envelope. "We pulled together a history for you. It's not everything, but it'll give you a pretty good picture of what you're up against. Past operations. Experiments that we know about. If this is the group that took your friend, what's in this file should explain the basics of their agenda and methods. It's the best we can do. As for getting close to them, that's beyond our scope." He glanced at Frohike, and seemed to debate whether he should say more. "But we might know someone who can help."

* * *

 **_5:40 p.m._ **

Methos opened the passenger door and got in, fastening his seat belt. "We have a date."

"So I hear. Eight o'clock. What do we do with ourselves until then?"

He showed her the manila envelope. "Homework. Background information on our one-armed friend's employers. Think you can find us a place to lie low for a couple of hours?"

"I can do that," she said, starting the car.

* * *

On reflection, Joe realized, he shouldn't have been surprised. Had the higher-ups always been this pig-headed, this locked in their own bureaucracy and politics? Or was it only the last few years, since Ian and Lydia and the rest of that guard had retired, or passed on, that things had gotten so bad? Listening to his colleagues argue, it came home to him: Methos was right. A thousand people couldn't keep a secret forever.

Except that they had, once upon a time. Before they'd had retirement funds, and login passwords. Before they'd needed accountants and expense reports, when being a Watcher hadn't meant working in a bar with half a dozen other Watchers, a bar bankrolled by the organization to give him more time for filing reports.

For the first ten minutes of the emergency council, he didn't say a word, just listened to them go on about damage control, about action plans and check-ins and security protocols, until he'd heard about as much as he could take.

"You guys don't get it, do you?" Seven pairs of eyes turned his way, showing varying degrees of surprise and affront at the interruption. "You're acting like you can control this situation, but you can't. Immortals aren't the danger here, we are." He swept the room with a look, refusing to back down in the face of their stiff disapproval. "We're the ones with the photo databases and the tape backups and the cell phone call lists and the regional headquarters. We're the danger—to them." He watched them digest that. "What do you think's gonna happen when they realize it? What do you think someone like Graydon Hammer, or Kell, or hell, even Marcus Constantine would do, if the shit hit the fan and the witch-hunts started? You think we wouldn't be the first target for them? It's a matter of survival. And not just for them, but for thousands, maybe millions of people, if this gets as bad as it could get."

He had their attention, now. At least they were listening. "Explain, Joe," said Madeline Fitzpatrick, coordinator for the Northeast region.

"I'm talking about what happens if these guys figure out what makes an Immortal tick. Figure out how to identify them with a blood test, or a scanner. Figure out how to replicate their DNA." Saying it out loud made something twist in his gut, but it had to be said. "I'm talking about a eugenics war like nobody's ever seen. Every Immortal forced to go into hiding. And us the road map."

"People have tried that," Ira Stein protested. "Experiments. Laboratory tests. No one's ever succeeded."

"Yeah, I bet they told the Wright brothers the same thing."

There was a little silence in the room, a dangerous silence. The last thing Joe wanted was to shove them closer to the possibility of another war like the one Horton had started, the one Jacob Galati and Jack Shapiro had very nearly finished, but if fear was the only thing they understood, they damn well better wake up to the real situation at hand.

"What do you suggest?" Bob Martinez said at last.

"We change the way we do things. No more regional offices. No more computers, no more high-speed intranet. No more investment accounts, for God's sake. Get rid of the databases, and the check-ins, and the poker games every Tuesday. We go back to the way we used to do things, the way the Watchers operated for thousands of years. We Watch. We keep the Chronicles. Individual cells, independent of each other."

Stein looked dubious. "You make us sound like terrorists."

"Well, it works for them, doesn't it?" Joe looked hard at the faces around the table, trying to make them see that it was up to them, now. The future of the Watchers was going to be decided right here in this room, and he wished like hell he could tell whether they were up to it. Fitzpatrick had some guts, he knew that. Wilson had a good head on his shoulders, too. But the rest... "It's either that," he said evenly, "or we give it up. Stop Watching. Let the Chronicles end here. Those are our choices, if we want to survive. If we keep going the way we are, sooner or later, it's all gonna fall down on our heads—and I'm betting on sooner."

He'd kept the idea of laboratory experiments as far away from conscious thought as he could for as long as he could, because it was Mac he was talking about. If there were even a chance, he knew Mac would die before he'd let that happen—before he'd let himself be used like that. No guarantee he'd get that chance, of course. The last time something like this had happened on record was World War II. How far had the human understanding of genetics come in that time? Cloning, gene splicing, stem cell research—how much more likely was it that this time the wheels would get off the ground?

"You know what you're asking, Joe," Fitzpatrick said at last. "You're talking about doing away with every change we've made in the past thirty years. Dismantling the work of people who gave their lives for the information we keep."

"He's talking about going back to the dark ages, is what he's talking about," Stein snapped.

"We've only had photographs on file since the 1860s," Joe countered. "Hell, we didn't have regional coordinators before 1962." He rolled up his sleeve, showing his tattoo. "There's a reason we wear these. It's because most Watchers never knew each other's names or faces before two hundred years ago. Somehow, we managed to track Immortals across centuries and all over the world for thousands of years before the invention of the fax machine. In case you haven't noticed, our track record in the modern age ain't so good."

"Even if you're right," Martinez said, "how does that help us tonight? We've got to decide what to do about what happened in New York. Donna Harris has been compromised. It's only a matter of time before whoever's behind this mines her records for something that connects her to others."

Fitzpatrick's gaze was steady, thoughtful, as it held Joe's. "You're talking about tonight, aren't you?" she said. "Starting here, tonight. We cut ourselves off. First from the worldwide network, then from each other."

"It might be the only chance we get."

The silence that followed was more a measure of their surprise, Joe thought, than how far he'd convinced them. He could see frank disbelief on at least three faces, and even James Wilson looked like he thought Joe had finally gone beyond the pale. But Fitzpatrick's grave mien seemed to take the wind out of their sails.

"Look," Joe said into that silence, wondering what he would have said if he could have foreseen this day ten years ago. What he would have done differently. "I've seen a lot of good people die in the last ten years. What happens if we become the means to the end of all the Immortals? After all we've done. All we've stood for. All the Watchers who've died over the years to protect the truth, to preserve their history. What kind of legacy do we give to those men and women if that happens?" He looked from face to face, convincing himself as much as them. "We're all historians, first and foremost. We got into this because we cared about keeping the Chronicles, not because we wanted to be soldiers in a secret war. That's what we're on the brink of. We lost ninety-two Watchers thanks to the mess Horton started—and thirty-seven Immortals. If we keep going down this path, those numbers are gonna get a lot worse. So what choice do we have?" And the worst part of all this, he thought, was that Jacques Vemas had been right all along. Methos would love that one.

"What about the others?" Wilson said at last. "South America, Asia. Africa. This only works if everything is dismantled. The whole machine, from the top down."

"We're the ones who were compromised," added Eva Mariani. "They won't see the danger so clearly. They'll say this is a breach in North American security, and we should deal with it."

"It won't be done overnight, in any case," said Fitzpatrick. "It'll take time."

"They might have time," Joe said, "but we don't. The faster we move, the better our chances. We need to start with your office, Madeline. Get your people to break everything down, salt the ground. Put everybody under radio silence until further notice. We go back to the single point of contact model. Use the old codes if we have to."

At that, Fitzpatrick's grim expression lightened. "The codes. I'd forgotten about those. Do they even teach those any more?"

"We better hope so."

Martinez shook his head. "I can't believe we're seriously considering this." He looked around the room. "Are we?"

The eight men and women present met one another's eyes. Joe saw in their faces the same fear he felt, the same daunted apprehension at the enormity of the task. He also saw the beginnings of acceptance. And maybe, in one or two faces, a hint of remembered purpose, and the glimmering of pride.

"I don't know about you," said Fitzpatrick, "but I didn't become a Watcher because I was afraid of a challenge."

When nobody brought up any more objections, Joe cleared his throat, a little shaken by what he'd set in motion. "We're gonna be at this a while. Does everybody want to take a break for half an hour, get some notes together? Then we'll come up with a plan?"

It was only later, after the meeting had run late into the night and certain other developments had come to pass, that it occurred to him he'd done what he'd sworn never to do again—which was repeat the mistake he'd made after Shapiro killed Galati, and opened his mouth at the wrong damn time.


	15. Chapter 15

**_Alexandria, Virginia  
7:56 p.m._ **

Breath clouding in the chill air, Methos stood on the curb opposite the bar and checked the address. It was a likely enough spot, with a wooden sign that suggested imports on tap and a slightly older crowd, probably leather barstools, subdued lighting, and if there was football on the television, they'd have the sound turned down. Not so far from the kind of place he favored. A quick survey of the street raised no immediate alarms: no silhouettes in parked, unmarked sedans, no suspicious-looking utility vans. The local restaurants were doing good business, but not so much that he'd had to fight for a parking space. A whiff of barbecued meat and chili oil reached him from the Korean place two doors down, and his stomach growled.

He'd left Amanda at the motel, in conference with her friend Myers. The manila file offered enough leads that she'd admitted it was time to go to him with names and connections, see what he could do. Methos had promised to check in.

The name Fort Marlene rested at the quiet center of his awareness, even as his thoughts wound around themselves in busy tracks. It had appeared more than once in the Xeroxed pages, perhaps too many times for coincidence. Impossible, of course. Impenetrable, for two alone, no matter how skilled Amanda was, and no guarantee it was the right place. But the name stayed present in his mind anyway, suggesting possible plans at the sub-level of thought.

Maybe it was easier to have something concrete to focus on, even if was only coincidence. Easier to imagine him there, close, even if unreachable; easier not to think about the other things that were in that file.

Later for that. Turning his focus to the here and now, he crossed the street and entered the bar.

For a Wednesday night, the place drew a decent crowd. The Victorian interior was comfortable and understated, and a small stage, now empty, suggested a jazz trio or blues band might make an appearance. The sweep of his gaze took in the two dozen or so patrons, mostly professional types with a few tourists. Out-of-towners here on business, he guessed. Alexandria was a busy port, and this part of town was close to the hotels. Half-expecting an Immortal buzz, he let himself relax a little when none manifested.

His eyes passed over the room's occupants again and came to rest on the figure alone at the end of the bar. The man fit Byers's description, and his haircut somehow pegged him for a federal man, even dressed casually as he was in dark jeans and a leather jacket. He didn't look up at Methos's perusal, seemingly absorbed in studying the ice cubes melting in his scotch, but something told Methos his arrival had not gone unnoticed.

_His name is Mulder. He's an FBI agent, but don't let that scare you. No one knows more about these guys than he does, and no one has more reason to despise everything they stand for. If anyone can help you, it's Mulder._

Methos moved to the bar, taking off his coat and laying it over the back of a bar stool one down from the man at the end. He leaned on the rail, nodding at the bartender's approach. "I'll have what he's having."

"Scotch and soda, on the rocks," the bartender acknowledged. When he brought it back, he asked, "You want to start a tab?"

"It's on me, Mike," the man said, slipping a ten out of his pocket and onto the bar without looking up. The bartender took it without comment, and seemed to know that was his cue to concern himself elsewhere.

After a long pause, in which both men sipped their drinks, Mulder said conversationally, "Adam Pierson died in 1967, so I'm not quite sure what to call you."

Methos took that in stride, acknowledging the hit with only a dip of his eyelashes and the smallest hint of a smile. "Where do these rumors get started? One never knows." He swirled the ice in his glass. "How much did Byers tell you?"

"Enough to know you're in a bad spot, and one I don't envy you." The other man paused, finishing his drink. "Your friend's not the first person they've done this to."

"Do you—" Methos's voice betrayed him, catching a little. "Do you think he's still alive?"

At last Mulder looked at him, a deep compassion and even deeper rage shading his deceptively mild gaze. "Mr. Pierson, I'd say it's almost certain."

Methos met his eyes for a long moment, holding himself steady against the knot of feeling that rose in his throat. Relief, but also grim understanding, for Mulder's tone held no promises, and his expression was one of regret, not reassurance. In that moment, intuition recognized a kindred spirit—a man who had lost everything more than once, and who refused to stay down. A man who still had things to lose, but didn't let that stop him. In spite of himself, Methos began to think Byers might be right.

At last he looked down at his hands. "What can you tell me?"

Mulder rose, leaving a couple of bills on the bar. "Take a walk with me."

Streetlamps gleamed on the wet pavement, glittered in droplets on bumpers and car windows. They walked toward the river, past the smells of food, the sounds of glasses clinking and people talking and music coming from the restaurants and bars.

"How much do you know about cloning, Mr. Pierson?" Mulder said conversationally as they walked.

Methos looked sharply at him. He had a feeling that it might not be above the man to display a wildly inappropriate sense of humor at times. "I understand the theory. I've read some of the journal articles. Before tonight, I was roughly familiar with how it's done, and I knew they'd succeeded in creating reproductive clones of animals over the past few decades, but I had no idea anyone had gone so far with human cloning as what was described in those files."

"Well, trust me when I say that the files don't show the half of it. The experiments go back to the thirties, and they've been perfecting the science ever since. Byers told me you got your hands on some records belonging to Carl Clauberg. Some of his colleagues were the field's first pioneers." Amused irony seemed the expression most at home on Mulder's face. "All hail the master race."

The night's chill seemed to thread its way under the collar of Methos's coat to settle against his bones. "It's been tried before."

"But no one's ever tried to clone an Immortal before. At least, not that I know of." Methos stopped, and Mulder turned to meet his look, half smug, half embarrassed. "Before you jump to conclusions, the Gunmen didn't tell me. It's sort of my job to know about these things."

The urge to look at Mulder's left wrist was thwarted; his hands were in his pockets. Methos revised his estimate of the man. That boyish, unassuming demeanor could catch you off guard if you let it. "Must be some job."

"Don't worry," Mulder said, "nobody reads most of my work. Even my partner doesn't believe half of it."

"That's comforting."

They started walking again, crossing the street and turning back the direction they'd come.

"Look," Mulder said, "I'm telling you this so you understand what's going on. This changes everything for them, especially now. The stakes are higher than you can imagine." Mulder sighed. "I sound like one of those 'The Time Is at Hand' guys, don't I?"

"I get the feeling you're used to that." Methos debated telling him that he thought he might be wrong, about it never having been tried. The man seemed to know more than enough already. "What is it you're not telling me?" he asked instead, sensing there were levels within levels here, an abyss that might go down as far as a man cared to look, and what he'd uncovered so far was only the thinnest layer of ice on the surface.

This time it was Mulder who stopped, looking at him sidelong. "You don't miss much, do you?"

"I try not to make a habit of it, no."

Mulder was silent for a long moment, as if debating with himself. "What would you say if I told you they once took someone I loved from me, and nothing I tried did any good? That I'd spent my whole career, my whole life, trying to find out the truth about what happened to her, and I still don't know?"

Methos felt the slow, heavy beating of his heart. What he saw in Mulder's eyes was the bleak landscape of those years, that search, the tiny kernel of hope that he'd nurtured until no disappointment, no betrayal or lie could touch it. Was it a challenge? A test of his mettle? "Then you know there's nothing I wouldn't do."

Mulder persisted. "They took my partner from me, too, and I couldn't stop them. I got her back only because they were finished with her."

Methos felt the muscles in his jaw clench. "You're saying you can't help. So what are we doing here, Agent Mulder?"

"I'm saying there's no weapon you can use to threaten them. Nothing they fear— except exposure. They're afraid of the truth. They thrive on secrets. And you've got a doozy." Mulder's cool gaze held his.

It took Methos a moment to understand what he was getting at. "You mean use that. Threaten to reveal Immortals to the world." Exposure. _Of course._ Yes. The Watcher records, too, all of it.

"They can fight it," Mulder cautioned. "By distracting people with their lies, their fictionalized versions of the truth. But it's going to be harder for them now. Their resources are stretched pretty thin." He fell silent a moment, taking Methos's measure. "It can't be an idle threat."

"Who said anything about idle?" Methos knew as soon as he said it, he meant it. He'd have made the same choice four years ago, had the choice been his to make. He'd said as much, walking with Duncan across the wet grass.

"It'll mean going to ground. Not just for you—for all those like you."

"Civilizations rise and fall. But for him..." His voice roughened. "For him I would trade the rest of us in a heartbeat."

That stark truth should have been tough to admit. Instead, it seemed to Methos that a weight he'd been carrying for days suddenly lessened, and he could breathe more easily.

There was understanding in Mulder's eyes, in the small nod he gave. "They operate in the shadow of plausible deniability. Take that away, and you take away their power. I warn you, though, they only have one policy, and it's deny everything. They'll discredit you if they can. Trust me, I've seen it before, more times than I can count."

"I'm pretty sure I can keep that from happening." With Myers's help, he was thinking, they could get the evidence to key figures in the state department, the intelligence agencies, maybe key members of Congress. If nothing else, it would level the playing field, and if a war were inevitable, at least they'd be more than pawns. "I'll need you to get the message where it needs to go. Can you do that?"

"Just say the word."

In Methos's mind, the beginnings of a plan were already coming together. To start, he'd borrow a page from Kalas's book. "I'll need some time to rig up a dead-man switch. That way, it won't matter if they get to me; the proof still gets out." There was also the part where he was going to have to convince Amanda and Joe to go along with it, but he would worry about that when the time came.

Mulder was watching him with the ghost of a smile. "You do know this is nuts, right?"

"So nuts it might actually work?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't think there was a chance."

They started walking again, the chill cutting deeper as they left the close shelter of the brick buildings, wind picking up down alleys and across parking lots. Up ahead, the lights of the train station shone on the wet pavement. "What about the body in the parking garage?" Mulder said after a moment. "You think it was McCormick?"

Methos dug his hands deeper in his pockets. "I think whoever was watching MacLeod, they went to too much trouble just to kill him. Whatever happened in that garage, it wasn't planned." He glanced over at Mulder. "McCormick seems the most likely candidate."

"You might be right. If so, you could be seeing more of me. I have a feeling he buried more than a few cases that might otherwise have ended up on my desk."

"That wouldn't surprise me."

Mulder stopped at a corner, waiting for a truck to pass. "Would it surprise you if I said there are stranger things in this world than Immortals, Mr. Pierson?"

"Like what?"

Mulder turned and met his look, then, an intensity in his expression that was, for the first time, unleavened by irony. It lasted only a moment. Then the almost-smile surfaced again, as if it had been there all along. "A conversation for another day. You've got enough to think about, and I have to get back. But hold that thought." The distant rumble of the train sent a low vibration up through their feet.

"How will I contact you?"

"Through the Gunmen, same way you did the first time. I'll be ready."

At what danger to himself? Methos wondered. But whatever the risks, Mulder seemed more than willing if it meant throwing a wrench into his adversaries's plans. Methos suspected concern for his own safety was not high on this man's agenda. "Thank you, Agent Mulder. Whatever happens, I owe you. I won't forget."

Mulder took his outstretched hand for a moment, then let go. The smile reached his eyes, turning them up at the corners. "Let's hope we're both around long enough to worry about it."

* * *

On a long stretch of state highway west of the city, satisfied that he wasn't being tailed, Methos pulled over and called Joe. His first two tries went to voice mail. Before he could try a third time, Joe rang him back; his report on the developments at Watcher central proved to Methos that sometimes mortals could still surprise him.

It also made his own report go down a bit easier, though Joe balked at the timetable. At last, admitting that Methos was right, and it was the only card they had to play, he agreed to the outlines of Methos's plan. _What the hell,_ he said finally, out of time and needing to get back to the council meeting. As long as they were burning bridges and salting the earth, might as well make it a clean sweep. Better that it be on their terms than the alternative.

Which was all very well and good, until Methos was alone in the car with his own thoughts, the reality of what he was about to do pressing in on him. He pulled into the parking lot of the motel and turned off the engine, then sat there in the glow from the lighted sign, watching the edges of the windshield fog.

He didn't really want to go in and face Amanda. What he wanted to do was drive and drive and disappear into the landscape, melt away like so much memory. He'd played it cool with Mulder, with Joe, but the truth was it scared him, what he'd set in motion—scared him to think of how many people would pay for it. He'd called himself death on a horse. What he'd done tonight might cost the world more dearly than anything he'd done during those bloody centuries. Did he really have the stuff to pull this off? To live with it? To make Joe Dawson live with it?

Still true, though, what he'd said to Mulder. Mac was the best of them, and if his life were for sale, Methos would pay whatever it cost. Not only because he couldn't live with having given up on him, but because somewhere in the past four years he'd started to believe that there could be redemption for what they were. That maybe it was even possible for him. And if Duncan could make him believe that, then— Well, the world needed grace like that.

_There comes a point where you have to say the hell with it and stop fighting the inevitable._

A light shone from the window of the corner room. He watched it for a while, imagining he could see the faint shadow of movement beyond the curtains, out of sensing range.

Myers's contacts would be invaluable if they had to carry this through, and might be the only thing that would shift the balance in their favor. If worst came to worst, he could be the key to getting Mac out of there the hard way. A part of Methos still toyed with that idea, slim though the chance of success might be. Maybe between Mulder and Myers they could stage some kind of op that had at least a prayer of succeeding.

If everything went perfectly. If they could get good intel. If security was less than perfect, and if they didn't move Duncan first. If he was in any condition to move.

Either way, Methos needed Amanda. Before Wolfe had come into the picture, Methos might have counted her as a willing partner in almost any scenario, no matter how risky. But she had more than one thing to lose, now, and he wasn't looking forward to explaining the choices.

Methos sighed. No help for it; sitting here steaming up the windows was only postponing the unavoidable.

She didn't even give him a chance to use his key. The door opened the moment he reached it, her relief plain as she grabbed his coat and pulled him inside.

"Jesus, Methos, a phone call would've been nice."

"Had to phone Joe. By the time I rang off, I was here."

"I can see that." She locked the door behind him, glancing out the curtains at the parking lot. Then she got a good look at his face, and her manner shifted in a blink from breezy annoyance to steady calm. "You found out where he is."

"Not exactly."

"But you do know something."

"Remember that lever I talked about? I think I know where to stick it." He took off his coat, laying it over the chair by the door. "Tell me that's coffee I smell."

"I know it's a shock, but I do know how to make it. Want some?"

"I'd trade you the key to my safe deposit box, if that's what it took."

"Really? Which one?"

He took the other chair with a sprawl, the long day suddenly catching up to him. "You choose, I'm not particular. If there's something to eat, I'll throw in my villa on the Costa del Sol."

"Now you're just teasing me," she complained. But she brought him a ceramic cup of reasonably strong black coffee and the sustenance food Joe had sent with them, then sat on the bed to watch him eat.

"What did Myers have to say?" he asked between bites.

"Plenty. He recognized at least six of the aliases in the files, two of them from his time with the Staszi. He said he can get us addresses and place of business for those two, probably for the others. He also said at least three of them are closed files, and he has friends in intelligence who would be very interested to know that these guys are still alive and kicking. He said he can probably make contact directly with one or two of them through his covers in Europe."

"And you say he's maintained contacts within the State Department?"

"I think Myers has got more contacts than Ivana has Ferraris. He doesn't like to call in those favors without a good reason, though. I'll have to be creative."

"I have every faith in you. And you'd better start warming up those creative juices, because we're gonna need a way to get information to a lot of people in high places within a very short amount of time."

"What kind of information?"

Taking a deep breath, he told her.

* * *

It was late by the time they'd finished working out the logistics, and Amanda didn't want to think about the list of favors she was going to owe Myers before this was over. She'd already had to promise him practically a mortal lifetime of indentured servitude, and the man had more lives than a cat. Worse, she suspected he was actually starting to believe her about the Immortal thing. But bottom line, he'd come through for her when the time came. If it came. Personally, she was still rooting for the best-case scenario and trying to make herself believe the threat would be enough.

 _What people are afraid of, they'll destroy. Or use._ She still wasn't ready for this, any more than she had been when Kalas had been the one holding the gun.

Methos looked as tired as she'd ever seen him, though the food seemed to have done him some good. "You're worried about Dawson," she guessed. A lot of this rested on Joe's shoulders, and it sounded like he was chest-deep in it with the Watchers already.

Methos shrugged, studying the empty cup in his hands. "Joe's tough. He can handle it."

Amanda sighed, and got up, taking the cup from him and setting it aside. "I hope you're right. He's been through a lot the last few days."

"Even on a bad day, my money's on Joe where the Watchers are concerned. You should have seen him after that mess with Galati. He had them practically eating out of his hand."

Amanda looked down, eyeing him critically. "You look like you're still chilled through."

"I'm fine, Amanda." A touch of irritation colored his tone, and he straightened in the chair, uncomfortable with her proximity. "It's been a long day."

"Is there anything else we can do tonight?"

"Not until Joe has a chance to get the files together."

She reached out, taking his hand and tugging gently. "Then let it go for now. Come with me."

"Amanda—"

"Methos." He resisted a little, but she was determined, and met his suspicious look without guile. "Come on. It'll do you good."

In the end, he gave in to her straightforward appeal and let her pull him to his feet.

* * *

She led him into the bathroom and turned on the water, undressed him without ceremony. When he was naked, she stripped off her own clothes and pulled him into the shower. Wet heat raining down on them like a benediction, she kissed him chastely on the mouth and then pressed herself against him.

They held each other tightly for a long time. In six hundred years, they'd never been more than occasional rivals and sometimes cantankerous allies, but somewhere in the last few days, they'd become friends. His body was all sinew and muscle, hard and unyielding. His arms, though, knew how to hold a girl, how to wrap you close and make you feel safe, and he gave himself to her embrace with unexpected gentleness. She'd needed this maybe more than he had, she realized. And maybe wondered about it, too, more than she'd believed.

"I was wrong about you, wasn't I?" she said, feeling the tension in her body start to ease, feeling a different kind of tension start to coil in her belly, slow and sweet.

"No, you weren't."

"Oh, really."

"Trust your instincts," he told her, his voice a low rumble close to her ear.

She shifted against him, and felt him stir in response. Smiling a little to herself, she slid her fingers up to stroke the back of his neck. He moved against her, responding to the caress. "Always do."

His lips brushed her hair, her ear. Shivers followed the touch. "Little minx," he said, and she could hear the smile in it. She liked the way it sounded.

He let her wash his back with lazy strokes, let the heat build between them gradually with slow, easy touches, with the warmth of breath and hands and unhurried caresses. It had been a long time for her, the last time that night with Duncan, on the barge. They'd outdone themselves that night, rushing each other and barely resting between, but for all their urgency, there'd been too much between them—too many things unspoken, too much time and distance and too many people they didn't want to talk about. Then Methos had walked in on them, and so many things had become clearer. She'd walked out on Duncan after, and made a mess of things, as usual.

"Hey," Methos said, stroking her wet hair back from her temple. "Thought we were working on not thinking, here."

She sighed, laying her cheek against his shoulder. "It's not as easy as it looks, is it?"

He held her close, hands soothing on her back. His erection pressed between them. "It's all right, if you'd rather not."

At that, she pulled back, challenging him. "I'd rather you kissed me."

His gaze moved over her face, her lips, then met and held hers with an intensity that made her heart beat faster. "Come on, then, let's take this to bed."

It was good with him, no surprise there. Hands like that and five thousand years of experience, she would have bet the crown jewels on it being good. What she didn't expect was how careful he'd be with her, how tender. She'd imagined taking the initiative, helping him forget for a little while; he surprised her, caressing and kissing her hands and her feet, the insides of her wrists, the backs of her knees, stroking her all over with his kisses until she felt like purring, and tension had long since given way to delicious anticipation. When he pressed his tongue inside her, she surprised herself, coming almost immediately in a gentle, sweet rush. Before she'd finished, he kissed her mouth open under his and entered her, taking in her soft cries and drawing them out, coaxing a small wave of shuddering climaxes from her body, one after the other after the other.

"Whew," she laughed softly when it was over, and he lay heavy on her, the racing of his heart easing against hers. "I guess it's been a while."

"Like riding a bicycle," he said, a little breathless.

"So, which one of us is the bicycle?"

She felt the flutter of his lashes against her neck, the silent vibration of his answering laugh. "Is that a trick question?"

Letting one hand drift down over his back, she rubbed small circles into the knotted muscles at the back of his neck. "Maybe we better quit while we're ahead."

"Very wise."

He shifted some of his weight, and they lay quietly together for a while, light from the desk lamp falling across the bed. The sound of cars on the highway made a distant backdrop to the steady murmur of Amanda's thoughts. How many lives might change forever tomorrow? She thought of Liam, in his church in Paris. Of Cory, wherever he might be. Of Nick, who'd been angry with her earlier, when she wouldn't tell him where they were, or when she might be home. And what would Duncan say, if he knew what price they were all about to pay for his life? She thought she could guess. He'd been willing to face Kalas to prevent such a scenario, and she knew it had been a close thing whether he'd fight at all.

At last Methos stirred and moved out of the circle of her arms, folding his hands behind his head. "You thinking about your young pup?"

She shrugged a little. "Thinking about tomorrow. Hoping we don't live to regret it." She turned over and propped herself up on one arm, studying him. "You knew we'd have to face this again, though, didn't you? When Kalas died. You knew it was inevitable."

"What makes you say that?"

"It's the way of the world, you said. You told MacLeod the same thing four years ago. That's why he changed his mind about Kalas."

"Not in so many words. I reminded him that life goes on, that's all. No matter how scary things might get."

"I never thanked you for that."

"Nor should you. It's the simple truth."

She reached out and traced the pure line of his collarbones with her fingertips, then laid her hand against his heart. Impulsive, she tilted her head and smiled wistfully. "How come we never did this before?"

His lashes veiled his eyes, and the hint of a grin touched his lips. "Besides the fact that your boyfriends usually carry swords and big guns?"

"Besides that."

"Where would you like me to start?"

She sighed. "Point taken. But it was nice, Methos. You have to admit it."

He groaned. "Nice. Damned by faint praise."

"Oh, you know what I mean." She wrinkled her nose. "He's not my boyfriend, you know."

"Who? Duncan, or Nick?"

"Either. Both. Nick in particular."

"Does he know that?"

She weighed that, considering.

He nodded, satisfied. "I rest my case." But there must have been something telling in her face, for he regarded her more closely. "Or maybe I should ask you the same thing."

Amanda's cheerfulness faltered at the gentle sympathy in his tone. She averted her gaze, looking down at her hand resting on his chest, then pulled the hand back. She ran her fingers along the edge of the sheet, unable to meet his eyes.

"Amanda, what is it?"

She swallowed. "I think I love him, that's what. And I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do about it."

It took Methos a moment to answer. "I should think you've been through this a few times before."

"No, that's just it. Don't you get it?" She looked up. "He's one of us, Methos."

"One of us."

"Only he doesn't know it yet."

She watched Methos digest that. Seeing understanding dawn in his eyes, she couldn't look at him any more and laid her head down on his shoulder. He put his arms around her, for which she was grateful. "Well, that does complicate things," he said at last, and she laughed, a little, miserable laugh.

"If you knew him, you'd know just how much."

"Let me guess. Boy Scout type? Annoyingly prone to chivalry? Lacks the first instinct for self-preservation, tussles with various moral dilemmas on a regular basis?"

"Bingo."

He sighed. "I wish I had an easy answer, Amanda. But I'm afraid I'm fresh out."

"I keep thinking I should get better at this," she said, spreading her hand against the warmth of his belly.

"It does seem like it should work that way, doesn't it?" He stroked her hair, a slow, steady rhythm. She closed her eyes and let him hold her for a while, feeling sleep creeping up on her. What time was it? Maybe after midnight. Methos smelled good, like shampoo and clean sweat and sex.

"What do you think Duncan would say if he could see us now?" she mused.

Methos didn't answer that, and she was almost asleep when she felt his lips brush her forehead.


	16. Chapter 16

In the early hours, Methos untangled himself from a sleeping Amanda and found his jeans, pulling them on. He shivered; the window heater made a few faint noises of protest before humming into service with a quiet sigh.

Joe picked up on the second ring. "Talk to me."

"Still awake?" He kept his voice low.

Joe blew out a deep breath. "Been a hell of a night, my friend."

"You sound it." He sat down, glancing toward the bed. Amanda hadn't stirred. "How's the shoulder?"

"It'll do. I've had worse."

"That bad, then."

"Pretty much. You can nag me about it tomorrow, if you want."

Methos let it go for the time being. "What's happening there?"

"We broke up about an hour ago. The New York office will be cleared out by morning. Fitzpatrick's got two of her people in there now taking care of things, and the rest are cleaning house. We're working on implementing the new contact protocols."

"How much did you tell them?"

"Only what I had to. Enough so they understand we're on a deadline."

"Did you tell them you're helping me?"

Joe's answer was a tired growl. "Does it matter?"

"Joseph." For a moment, Methos was in a basement in Paris, pulling cloth fragments out of bullet holes and willing his hands to steadiness while Duncan waited, helpless. He closed his eyes and leaned his elbows on his knees, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me you covered your tracks."

"Trust me, I've learned a thing or two the last few years. You just tell me where to send the files."

"My friends here have set up an upload directory. They'll handle the distribution according to the contact list from Myers, if it comes to that. You'll find the login data in your hotmail account."

There was a little silence at Joe's end. "You sure you trust them with this."

Methos sighed. He supposed this was inevitable. "Like I said, it's not news to them, and they want these guys as bad as we do." He imagined the other man's expression too clearly. "Look, it's a long story, Joe. There wasn't time."

"Uh huh, I'll bet."

"I don't seem to remember you giving MacLeod this much of a hard time."

"Trust me, he gets his share." Another pause. "How's Amanda?"

"Asleep, at the moment. Which makes her the smart one."

"And what about you? Still think this is a good idea?"

"Don't ask me what I think, Joe. I don't know anymore. I think all we can do at this point is play it out."

"Yeah, I hear you."

They fell quiet, the shape of their shared history between them, the echo of old battles and old arguments. This was it, then. How long before Joe uploaded the files, and the Gunmen had everything ready? Two or three hours, he guessed. They'd contact Mulder by six at the latest. And how long to wait for some kind of response? Hours? The deadline was midnight, tomorrow. By then, one way or the other, they'd know whether their gamble had paid off.

Not for the first time, Methos thanked whatever gods might be listening for Joe Dawson. MacLeod must have used up several lifetimes worth of luck when he'd drawn Joe as a Watcher—they wouldn't have gotten half so far without him. "Try to get some sleep, will you?" he said at last.

"I will if you will."

"You said it."

They signed off, letting that mutual fiction lie.

* * *

 **_Thursday  
6:31 a.m. _ **

Amanda followed the world's oldest pain in the ass as he carried his small duffel out to the car. She matched her long stride to his with effort. "I thought we talked about this."

"Did we? I'm sorry, I don't recall."

Amanda made a face. "Don't be an ass." Despite her best attempts to keep her temper, the guy was really starting to piss her off. "You can't seriously think I'm going along with this."

"Amanda, it's the only thing that makes sense." He put the bag in the trunk and closed it, fishing in his pocket for the room key. "It's simple, it saves time, and it lets them know I'm not kidding about the dead man switch. They've nothing to gain by taking me, nor by killing me, and everything to lose. I'll be safer there than any of us have been in days, so will you stop worrying?"

"If it's so safe, then why can't I come with you?"

He started across the parking lot, heading toward the motel office. "Because that equation only covers my rear end, not yours, lovely though it may be." Irritation was starting to show around the edges of his patience, and she seized on that like a terrier.

"Compliments are going to get you exactly nowhere, buster. I'm not going anywhere until you come to your senses."

He sighed impatiently, and stopped, turning to face her. "Amanda—"

"What?"

Methos looked hard at her, and she felt some of the wind go out of her bravado. "You're smarter than this, that's what. You know this makes sense. Not that I don't appreciate your concern, but we are not talking about a sacrifice play here, and you know it." His eyes were very old in his young face, and unexpectedly gentle. "Give me a little credit, will you?"

In the face of that unfair appeal, Amanda found herself at a loss. She pressed her lips together and shook her head once, wishing that, for once, she could figure out how to outflank the wily bastard. "And what am I supposed to do, exactly, while you're off being perfectly safe?"

"Go to Joe," Methos said evenly. "Watch his back. Let him watch yours, so I can worry about the rest of it. Do your best to get the word out to anyone you can, anyone you trust, while there's still time."

"And what if these guys don't read the equation the same way you do? How are we supposed to know?"

He turned away, resuming his stride. "If you don't hear from me by midnight, you'll know."

She stood in the middle of the parking lot and watched him walk away, wondering if she'd remember those words years from now, remember the way the pale sunrise and lingering fog cast him into gray silhouette. Shivering a little, she put her hands in her pockets and wrapped her borrowed coat closer around her.

They said little on the drive to the Metro station. There wasn't much left to say, was there? What was done was done. Now there was only the drive ahead, and the long wait for the fallout.

* * *

After Amanda dropped him off, Methos spent the better part of the morning in a bookstore cybercafé less than ten minutes from his house, making notes and writing letters to solicitors. The Adam Pierson identity was well past its shelf date in any case—he'd only held onto it this long because he'd wanted to make it easy for MacLeod to find him. Pierson had no ties at all to the decidedly upper crust wastrel with the Georgian townhouse in Mayfair, and it would only be a matter of some careful disguise work, then hopping a plane to London to leave good old Adam forever behind.

He carefully didn't think about the circumstances under which he'd need such a getaway plan. If—when—he got MacLeod back, they'd face a whole different set of challenges, but the need to disappear would be less pressing in the short term. His threat could stand as long as his dead man switch remained in place, which was to say indefinitely—and if it worked once, it should keep the vultures off their backs for a while.

Fortified with breakfast and coffee, the basics covered in a page and a half of small, handwritten print, he moved to a table tucked away in the stacks and turned his thoughts to that nebulous future. Amanda had taken the Gunmen's file for safekeeping, and mostly what he had was questions without answers, but writing them down and considering possibilities was a good way to keep his mind occupied. His strategic planning skills were well beyond rusty—mostly by his choice. If that had to change, might as well start now.

The more he considered, the more his thoughts kept circling back to the question of Cory Raines and Alex Krycek. Given what they'd learned, the most likely possibility seemed inescapable: that Krycek was himself an experiment, a genetic clone of Raines. Methos wished he didn't believe it was possible, but the evidence made it hard to resist the obvious conclusion. To make things more interesting, he didn't think Krycek had any idea.

His pen hovered above the journal page. If that were true, it was possible, even likely, that those who created him didn't know they'd succeeded. No x-factors distinguished pre-Immortal blood from mortal blood as far as current science was concerned. He wondered whether even the most rigorous course of biological testing would turn up anything anomalous. Certainly thirty or more years ago the chances had been even lower.

Had they given up after their "failed" experiment? Had Raines escaped, or had he been released? Did he have any memory of what had happened to him? According to Byers's files, most abduction victims experienced lost time, lost memories. As far as he knew, there was nothing in Raines's chronicle about an abduction, but Frohike's improbable story about a robbery attempt on Fort Knox and the subsequent disappearance of the perpetrator seemed to make a kind of mad sense. Hadn't Duncan mentioned something about Raines trying to rob the Federal Reserve?

What were the chances that the experiment would succeed a second time?

Methos put the pen down, rubbing his eyes. For no reason that made sense, the idea of cloned Immortals troubled him far less in the abstract than the idea of another MacLeod, bred and raised as a killer like Krycek, or worse. Another Duncan somewhere, kept in the dark about what he was, perhaps used as a lab rat... a damaged, brainwashed, efficient killer wearing his friend's face. He knew the odds for cloning weren't good, that most of the fetuses failed, but all the ways such a creature might be used against them crowded into his mind, making him a little queasy. Even if his gamble paid off and they got MacLeod back, this would be far from over. Maybe that's what Mulder had been trying to tell him with that last cryptic remark.

At some point in the near future, he and Agent Mulder were going to have a serious talk.

A little after ten, he used one of the workstations to check his anonymous mailbox and found Mulder's confirmation that the message had been delivered and received. He sat and stared at the email, the words stark on the screen. That was it, then. It was done, no turning back. Unexpectedly, a sense of lightness flowed over him, a kind of numb, fatalistic relief. He could go home now. Home to wait, and hope.

Despite his assurances to Amanda, it wasn't easy to make himself walk the last few blocks. It went against every instinct he had, and even the neighborhood's morning traffic and the cool weight of the 9mm did little to prevent the way the hair stood up on his arms, his neck, as he made the last turn. How many? A parked, windowless van on the south side of the street, almost laughably obvious. A vacant house with a For Sale sign two doors down from that, its windows shuttered on the inside. A sniper could take him down easily and be long gone by the time anyone called the police. A car might pull alongside him, a team take him out with a tranq dart and hustle him into the back seat before he could put up a fight. Eyes, real or imagined, burned themselves into his back.

It was worse when he reached his front walk and mounted the steps. His door seemed immeasurably menacing, the front windows of the house ominously dark. Less than a week since he'd slept in this house unknowing, unafraid; now, he knew, the worst potential for danger lay behind that door. His own security camera watched him, impassive.

Hand on the Luger, he let himself in.

The house smelled like it had been closed up too long in cold, damp weather, but underneath lingered the faint scent of stale cigarette smoke. Drawing his gun, Methos left the door open and moved down the front hallway, checking rooms for other signs of disturbance or movement. He sensed no one, heard no one... but his computer was gone from the study, the monitor's plug dangling over the edge of the desk. So much for his end of semester grading.

Two minutes, and still no sign of trouble. His nerves relaxed a fraction.

He returned to the front door and locked it, then made a thorough circuit of the house. Nada, save a handful of small clues that someone had searched the place, and that bare echo of cigarette smoke. _Someone's been sleeping in my bed,_ he thought, checking the upstairs bedrooms. At least they'd had the decency to put things more or less back in order.

Satisfied that he was alone in the house, Methos clicked the safety on and went back down to the study. He'd destroyed his borrowed mobile back at the motel, but he'd promised Amanda and Joe he'd do his best to keep them in the loop. His desk phone gave him a dial tone. That was a reassuring sign, of sorts. He picked up and dialed. A generic, recorded female voice greeted him, and invited him to leave a message.

"Good morning, it's your friendly neighborhood sitting duck. I'm at the house. So far, the coast is clear. Please pass the word along that all's quiet for now, so sit tight, and wait for my call. And please do watch your backs, kids. It's a jungle out there."

Methos hung up the phone and sat at his desk, listening to the quiet. A wave of tired depression washed over him, and he recognized it as the aftermath of too much adrenaline. Outside, the distant sounds of traffic, of horns beeping and the deep rumble of a bus engine, pressed on him with their normality. He'd been running on overdrive for so long it felt anticlimactic, sitting here at his own desk, helpless to do anything but wait.

He hadn't slept much, which didn't help, and such sleep as he had managed had been troubled, plagued by nightmares. Tea, he decided, and pushed himself to his feet. Tea, and a change of clothes, and then maybe a call to the university. Meager distractions against the grim landscape inside his head, but he had to start somewhere. It was likely to be a long day.

* * *

 **_White Plains, New York  
10:52 a.m._ **

Joe Dawson didn't realize how tense he was until the message came through, short and sweet: _All's quiet on the home front. Stand by until further notice._ Their code phrase for trouble was "remember the Alamo"—Methos's idea of a joke, naturally. So far, so good, then. Joe sat back and stared at the handful of words for a good three minutes, trying to imagine what was happening. He didn't want to think about what this day was gonna do to his blood pressure.

A knock came at the door, and Jim Wilson came in, looking about as tired as he felt. "You got a minute?"

Joe reached out and blanked the screen. "Yeah. Just checking airfares to Tahiti. What's up?"

"Stein's gone. Submitted his resignation and split an hour ago."

"Guess that shouldn't come as a surprise, huh? You think he's gonna be trouble?"

Wilson sat down in the other chair, rubbing his hands over his face. "Madeline doesn't seem to think so. She said he was scared spitless."

Joe gave him a wry look. "Tahiti's starting to look pretty good, ain't it?"

"You know it."

They sat in silence for a moment, the house quiet. They'd all spent the better part of the last fifteen hours on the phone or arguing with each other in the conference room. The shouting was over now. All over the country their new protocols were being set in motion, and all that was left for them to do was to go home and start learning how to live their lives over again. Joe thought of the bar with regret. Once he got the money from cashing out of the retirement plan he might be able to afford a place on his own, but Le Blues Bar was a big investment with a lot of overhead. Even if he could afford it, they had to cut the paper trail, sell off any assets with the organization's funding behind them.

"I'm heading out myself in a little while," Jim said, straightening in his chair. "Got a lot of work to do when I get home." He held out his hand. "It's been good working with you, Joe. Maybe we can get together one day for a drink or something."

Joe returned his grip. "Maybe. I'd like that."

Wilson got up. "Look after yourself, all right? If we're gonna survive this, we need people like you."

"Yeah, well, back atcha. Good luck."

"You, too. See you, Joe."

After he'd left, Joe gave some thought to coffee, but his stomach informed him in no uncertain terms that it was a bad idea without at least some real food to go with it. He glanced at the phone, and sighed. No reason to put it off any longer. He picked up the headset and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Amy. It's Joe."

"Joe?" He heard a faint crackle and imagined her switching the phone from one ear to the other. "What on earth is going on over there? The rumors have been flying like crazy all morning."

"Yeah, I know. You're gonna get the whole story soon enough."

"Are you all right?"

The genuine concern in her voice made his chest squeeze. He couldn't say anything for a second. "I'm fine, Amy, listen—" He drew a breath. "Things are gonna get hairy for a while. I want you to get out of Paris. Go back to London, if you want, or someplace else, just— stay away from the regional offices. Maybe even see if you can take a sabbatical for a little while."

"A sabbatical." Her disbelief was plain. "Joe, what's this about?"

"Look, I'll make it an order if I have to. I know you're excited about getting back into the field, but I'll rest a lot easier knowing you're somewhere other than Immortal central right now."

She struggled to keep her voice calm, though he could hear she was angry. "Joe, I've worked hard for this. After Walker, I didn't think I'd get another assignment until I was at least sixty. Do you have any idea how lucky I am to get another shot? And it's Ceirdwyn, for God's sake. You're asking me to pass that up?"

Joe closed his eyes. "Ceirdwyn." Ceirdwyn would be smart. A survivor. She'd get out of Dodge, and take Amy with her.

"You didn't know?"

"No, I hadn't heard. Reynard's taken over assignments since I've been gone."

Amy laughed a little, sounding relieved. "I guess that means I really did earn it. I thought— Well, I wondered if maybe you—"

"I had nothing to do with it. But I'm glad. That's great. Congratulations, sweetheart."

"Does that mean we don't have to have this argument after all?"

He debated saying more, guessing how she was going to take it, but it might be a long time before they saw each other again. "If I had my way, you'd resign and move to New Zealand for the next decade or two. But I don't guess that's real likely, huh?"

"I don't think so. You know how I feel about sheep." She surprised him into a chuckle. "So what's this about? Are you really going to make me wait for the briefing?"

"To tell you the truth, I think if I had to tell you the whole story right now, they might have to lock me up in a padded room for a few days. But I'll tell you this much— you'd better see if Philippe will let you take your assignment early. Like, in the next few hours. Or else you might have a hell of a time finding her."

Amy laughed again, then stopped when she realized he wasn't joking. "You're serious."

"Yeah, I'm serious. So don't say I never gave you anything, okay?"

"That's not something I'm likely to say in any case."

Throat tight, Joe pressed the phone closer to his ear. "Just be careful, will you? I got enough to worry about."

"I will, I promise. No more rescues required." Her voice was warm, and reminded him unexpectedly of her mother. "I'd better go, if I'm going to talk to Reynard before the briefing."

"Goodbye, Amy. I'll be thinking of you."

"Bye, Joe."

He listened to the silence on the other end of the line for a long moment before he set the handset back on its cradle. The clock on the wall ticked out several handfuls of seconds before it came home to him that there was nothing he needed to be doing right then. All the calls had been made; all the plans had been set in motion. Methos was in place, and under no immediate threat. Amanda was on her way. Amy would be out of the line of fire soon enough—not safe, by any stretch of the imagination, but short of locking her in a tower somewhere, he supposed it was as much as he could hope for. Exhaustion washed over him, and the pragmatic part of him thought about how long it might be before his next chance at a real bed.

Barely making it to the couch, he slept, deep and dreamless, for a good two hours before he became groggily aware that someone was shaking him.

"Joe. Joe, it's me."

"Amanda." His voice was a hoarse croak. He struggled up onto one elbow; she grasped his hand and pressed something into it—a cup, cool and smooth. Apple juice, with ice. He drank deeply, closing his eyes with gratitude.

"You okay?"

"Fine. What time is it?" He set the cup aside and pushed himself up; she stuck a fat cushion behind him for support and sat down on the arm of the couch.

"Just after one. I've been here about an hour, but you looked like you needed it."

"What did I miss?"

She shrugged, crossing her legs. "A bunch of Watchers giving me dirty looks. Me going stir crazy waiting for you to wake up. Have you heard anything?"

He glanced at the computer. "Had a message that the coast was clear as of around ten-thirty. See if there's anything new. Password's 'dallasblues1912'."

She jumped up and checked his message log, but shook her head. "Nothing incoming."

He sighed and swung his legs gingerly to the floor, grimacing at the discomfort. Should have unstrapped the damn things before he passed out—he was gonna be paying for that the rest of the day. "Tell me some good news, wouldya? I could use it."

"Well, let's see. Nick's still not speaking to me. Kit O'Brady still thinks I'm a bitch, and now he also thinks I've got a screw loose. Robert and Gina de Valicourt's housekeeper says they're off on a skiing holiday and won't be back until Tuesday, and Liam says he doesn't want to leave his parish, but not to worry about him. Oh, and I think I signed away my life to Bert Myers for the foreseeable future."

"That's the good news?"

"Pretty much. I called everyone I could think of—even Dex, little as he deserves it."

"How much did you tell them?"

"Just enough to get the message across. I said something big was going down, that they should get out of town and cover their tracks for the next few days, and wait to see what happens."

"Well, you did what you could. What they do now is up to them."

"It's too bad I didn't find an address book at Duncan's place. He knows everybody."

Joe shook his head. "He doesn't keep one—hasn't for years."

She raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? The guy has more friends than a ninety-year-old millionaire. What does he do, memorize everybody's numbers?" One look at Joe's expression, and she rolled her eyes. "What am I saying? Of course he does. Ever since Kalas, I'll bet."

"Bingo. I can come up with some of them, though." Starting with Ceirdwyn, he thought. "Even if all we do is give them a heads-up, it's better than nothing."

"Works for me. But what about us? Do we stay here and wait?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you know what I think."

Joe grinned, feeling a little better for the first time in a while. "As a matter of fact, I think I do."

* * *

 **_Georgetown  
8:48 p.m._ **

Methos came from a fitful doze to full waking in the span of perhaps two seconds. For a moment he was disoriented, fingers spread and reaching for a sword they didn't find. Awareness came a moment later, and he realized he'd fallen asleep on the couch. His coat was draped over the chair beside him. On his feet before his brain really caught up with him, he searched for his pistol; once his hand closed on the grip and he freed it from the pocket, he went still, listening. No sound. No buzz. Nothing moving in the dark. So what had woken him?

The room was deep in shadow, a thick gray twilight that turned even the indistinct shapes of furniture into dark, looming threats. He resisted the urge to turn on a light. Darkness could be an ally, in the familiar territory of his own home.

Retrieving his sword as well as the 9mm, he moved silently toward the front hallway, stepping to one side of the door. A quick check confirmed that the deadbolt was still thrown. He stopped and listened again. For a good minute he stayed like that, not moving, reaching out with every sense he possessed for any sign of danger. Nothing.

He began to make a cautious circuit of the house, retracing his steps from that morning. From the foyer into the living room, then through to the stairwell on the other side, down the long narrow hallway, short hairs pricking on the back of his neck the whole time. He tilted his head to listen up the stairs... and that was when a faint breath of air teased his nape, a cool breeze from further down the hallway. The kitchen. Where he hadn't left any windows open.

He moved down the hall. Reaching the kitchen door, he pressed himself into the shadows against the wall and peered into the room.

The back door was open. But it was something else that caught his attention and held it, made the floor drop away for a long, dizzying instant. Methos froze where he stood, his whole body swept by a wash of cold, followed swiftly by fierce, prickling heat. His throat closed.

Finely perfected survival instincts warned him that the back door was still standing open, that two lives might depend upon his actions in the next few seconds. He forced himself to pull his gaze from the dark shape and moved into the room, crossing to the open door. Holding the pistol before him, he scanned the tiny yard for any movement, any sign of threat. The gate was standing open; otherwise all was quiet, as it should be. When the seconds ticked by and no silent slug took him down, no sound or movement disturbed the quiet, Methos shut the door and shot the deadbolt, then turned at last toward the kitchen table.

On the wide butcher block surface, a body lay, unmoving. A man's body, lit by the swath of lamplight from the street—broad shoulders, dark hair, dressed in clothing too warm for the spring night. Unmarked, undamaged, undeniably dead. But not permanently so.

He didn't know how long he stood like that, how many heartbeats counted themselves out while he stared at that dark form, willing himself to wake, to move, to blink and erase this image, this specter of his heart's hope. At last he breathed, a ragged gasp that felt too close to breaking.

Numb dream-steps across the tile floor, numb fingers that slipped the pistol into the waist of his jeans. The sword he laid aside on the counter, barely noting the way his hand shook when he did it. He couldn't say the name. He reached out and touched one shoulder.

Moonlight cast hollows of shadow on the familiar features. He was pale in death, the skin stretched over the fine cheekbones, lashes soot-dark on the cheeks. And still. Even the full lips were bloodless, cold.

Methos froze for a second when he spotted two tiny shaved patches in the dark hair above his ear. Touching the bare places made his stomach turn an uneasy flip; turning the head, he found two more to match, healed with soft, new skin. Methos slipped his hands under the coat, running them over the broad chest. The gray sweater was stiff with old blood. His fingertips found three singed bullet holes over the sternum, but beneath them the skin was unbroken, and he felt no stickiness. No marks on the face, no fresh blood on the body— Roughly, he pulled the edge of the sweater up, baring skin. Cool to the touch.

He pressed his hands against the belly, the prominent rib cage, trying to find what had killed him and why he was so still, why he didn't revive. The slim frame, thinner than Methos remembered, fine, crisp hairs under Methos's fingertips, muscle and bone and the solid weight of him—

Methos swayed, something hot and tight rising powerfully in his chest. The shaking got worse, heat washing through him in waves he couldn't control. Then he saw it. A nearly invisible mark on his neck: faint bruising left by a needle inserted with some force. Some kind of injection. Which meant—he touched the place gently, feeling the dizzying sweep of hope—not long to wait.

Leaning over the still form, he felt for a pulse. "Come on..." he whispered, barely knowing he spoke.

As if in answer, the first delicate thread of returning Presence wound around the base of his skull, stabbing gentle current into the center of his brain. Then it rose, swelling over him, a single soft note building to a silent symphony in seconds, until it was _there,_ that unmistakable harmonic surge—

The man under his hands choked softly. And breathed.

Another breath came, labored and gasping, followed by a low shudder as the involuntary reflexes took over, the heart remembering how to beat, lungs remembering to draw air, and that was good, that was all right. He would have to do it for both of them, because Methos's body had forgotten inconsequential things like breathing. Finally, Methos stopped trying to say his name and just held onto him, fingers slipping into the thick hair, his face bent close against the strong neck and the steady new heartbeat pulsing there. He found himself overwhelmed by the scents of wool and metallic blood and the first rush of his own salt tears. A hundred questions pressed at him, none of them finding words.

"Methos?" MacLeod said, a breath against Methos's ear.

The soft sob wrenched out of him like something breaking free, something deep and vital that left him dizzy with vertigo. "Mac." He knew he couldn't do this, couldn't hold onto him like this, couldn't let himself come apart like this—but the knowledge was pale and indistinct and very far away, and once the name was past his lips there was no stopping it anyway.

Distantly, he knew that Duncan sat up. But when arms went around him—when returning strength caught him and pulled him close, hugging him awkwardly against that solid frame—questions slipped away, and he closed his eyes and held on, for that one moment not caring if he ever got the answers.


	17. Chapter 17

"You okay?" Duncan asked at last, pulling back, and Methos laughed, a small, damp laugh. He took a shaky breath and let go, wiping his face with his hands.

"Yeah, Mac. I'm— yeah." His voice sounded as ragged as he felt. He drank in the familiar face, the little worried frown between the dark brows. Feeling like he might lose it again, he tore his gaze away and put a little distance between them, rubbing the back of his neck; he couldn't stop looking at him for long, though, and his eyes stole back. "It's good to see you, that's all. I didn't know if—" He broke off, trying to get his scattered thoughts together. "What about you? Do you remember how you got here?"

The frown deepened. Duncan swung his legs over the edge of the table, moving as if it had been a long time since he had, as if his limbs didn't quite want to obey his commands. "I remember a light. A needle. And the cold—" He drew a sharp breath, and Methos saw him suppress a shudder. He seemed to search inward, trying to grasp something solid in his memory. "A cold place. Never dark." His brows knitted, Duncan struggled visibly for more, his face taking on a haunted pallor Methos didn't much like. He took an involuntary step closer, uneasiness suddenly knotting inside him.

"Mac." The dark eyes lifted to his, seemed to come back from wherever they'd gone. Confusion and uncertainty were clear on his expressive face. "It's all right. You're safe now." He evaluated Duncan more critically, seeing past his own tangle of emotions to the physical signs of duress he'd missed. Dehydration, probably anemia. Returning from death required a lot of fluids and calories, especially if blood loss was involved. Had they fed him at all? How many deaths had he suffered in that place, and how many in pain? Pushing the deep wellspring of rage aside, he kept his voice even as he went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of juice, started to pour it into a glass. "I want you to drink this." He turned on the light over the sink, added water at the tap, then swirled in a dash of salt and brought it to him, their hands touching. "Go slowly, all right?"

Duncan nodded and obeyed, using both hands to keep the glass steady. He closed his eyes and drank, swallowing as though his throat felt raw. When he'd drunk a third of it, Methos closed a hand over his and urged him to take it easy. Duncan looked at him as if startled by his touch. "Slowly," Methos urged again, hearing the roughness in his voice.

"Methos, how long was I...?"

Four days. A lifetime. Methos's chest felt tight. "It's Thursday. You disappeared on Sunday night." He watched Duncan absorb that, watched him try to internalize it. What did he remember? Methos knew how a day could seem like forever, how time lost its meaning when the body and spirit were under extreme duress. Duncan nodded, finally, and drank some more of his juice.

 _Sooner or later,_ Methos thought, watching him regain some color. _Sooner or later, I will find every one of those responsible, and I will make them pay for whatever they did to you, I promise you that._

"Better?" Methos asked with forced lightness, when Duncan stopped to rest.

Duncan lowered the glass and reached up with his other hand to touch the shaved places in his hair, his expression impossible to read. "Yes. Thank you."

"How do you feel?" The slight frown had settled again between Duncan's brows.

"All right," he said. Then, after a moment, "Hungry?"

Methos felt the pressure in his chest ease, the ghost of a smile coming to his lips. "Glad to hear it. I'll fix you something. You should probably take it slowly."

Duncan's hand fell to his chest, and he grimaced, touching the edges of the holes in his sweater. "Okay. Do you have anything else I could wear?"

"You feel up to a shower?" At Duncan's nod of grateful assent, he said, "Upstairs, first door on your right. Help yourself—there's clothes in the wardrobe, and in the closet. Take whatever you like. I'll bring the food up when it's ready."

Duncan nodded, glancing down the hallway, then back at Methos. "Thanks."

"Take it easy," Methos urged him. "You've been through a lot."

"I will," Duncan assured him. "Thank you."

He went, and Methos watched him go.

In the fridge, he found eggs, an onion and some peppers that still looked worth eating, and the last of a package of store-bought crumpets. It would have to do.

His hands moved on autopilot, breaking eggs, cutting up vegetables. He was grateful for the simple necessity. His thoughts turned in rapid circles, his body running hot and cold with the unpredictable waves of feeling, with the surreal awareness of Duncan in his house, alive, waiting for Methos to cook him breakfast. Thank you. It was strangely formal for them, and touched on the nameless apprehension that rested in his belly. The last time Duncan had thanked him had been in that car park in Paris. Methos put the crumpets in the toaster and poured the eggs into the hot pan. Joe, he thought belatedly. Joe and Amanda, waiting for news. He couldn't call them. Not yet. Their questions, their relief, would be enough to push him right past his precarious calm. Soon, though, if he valued his life.

The eggs sizzled faintly in the pan; absently, he added the peppers, onions, and cheese, and folded the omelet over. Then he set the spatula aside, turned the burner down, and went to sit in one of the wooden chairs, his legs suddenly unsteady beneath him.

He rested his elbows on his knees, forehead in his hands, and breathed. The smell of food cooking, the sound of his tread on the stairs. Overhead, the sound of cabinet doors opening and closing, then the faint sound of water running. Joe, and Amanda.

Not yet. Something he needed to know, first. Something he should have—

Methos closed his eyes, rubbed them. Mac was here. He was safe. The rest they could deal with, one way or another.

* * *

The bedroom door stood slightly open, and Methos hesitated on the landing, warm plate in one hand, utensils and more juice in the other. He knocked awkwardly with his toe, listening. The water had stopped running. "Mac?"

"Come in. I'm dressed."

It was almost true; he was buttoning up one of Methos's shirts, his feet bare. His hair stuck up in damp disarray. The cotton shirt fit him like it was made for him, white against his dark skin. Mouth dry, Methos turned away and set plate and glass on the small table by the window. Duncan's discarded clothes were on the chest against the wall, his sword laid on top of his ruined coat. Traces of blood marred the blade, four days old.

"I have my coffee here in the mornings, sometimes," Methos said. Meaningless words, safer than what he wanted to say. "There's a garden. It's not much, but I like to watch the birds." Duncan sat down in front of the place he'd set; if he felt the same hesitance, the same awkwardness, the need for food overcame it. "Go ahead," Methos urged, gesturing at the food. Duncan started to eat. After a moment, watching him, Methos moved away and sat on the edge of the bed.

The omelet and buttered crumpets disappeared in short order. His color was better when he finished, and he looked a good deal less likely to keel over at any second. Clean and well-fed, he looked like Methos remembered him. Methos got up and fished a pair of warm socks out of a drawer, tossing them at him. Duncan caught them with his usual grace. "It's cold in here," Methos said. "I put the heat on, but it'll take a little while."

"Thanks." Duncan bent down and pulled the socks on; Methos wished he'd brought a glass of water for himself. Hard not to watch Duncan's broad hands, old scars marring their smoothness. Hard not to think about what fresh scars he might have borne had Immortal healing not erased them so thoroughly.

Wordless pressure closed around his heart again. "Mac, how much do you remember?"

Duncan looked up at him, then slowly sat up. His eyes darkened, and a stillness shadowed his expression, as though he were listening to some inner voice, one he couldn't quite hear. "I'm not sure. I can't— It's like it's all jumbled up in my head. When I try to look at it, all I can see is the light. And flashes. Images. An operating room. Nightmares, I think... but they slip away when I try to hold onto them."

Methos nodded. He drew a deep breath, watching Duncan's face carefully. "And what about before that? What else do you remember?"

The little line reappeared between his brows. His eyes lost their focus, and he folded his arms against his middle, an unconscious gesture. Methos watched him, stomach sinking, watched his confusion deepen as he struggled with it. "It's not just the last four days that are scrambled, is it, Mac? It's everything."

Duncan shook his head slightly, hands curling in loose fists against his ribs. "Not everything. I know my name, and that I—" He glanced at the katana. "—I know how to use that. I know that I've lived for hundreds of years, and I see the faces of people I've loved. I remember the highlands, the heather on the moors. I remember a boy on a motorcycle, and I know he was my son. I know I can trust you." He looked up, searching Methos's face. "I knew your name. And mine. Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod. But the rest..."

Methos swallowed, nodding. "It's all right," he said after a moment. "You'll be all right. Just give it time."

Duncan stood up, pacing, holding his uneasiness in tightly. "Why can't I remember?"

"It's to be expected, Mac. You've been through a terrible ordeal, and whatever they did to you, it's obvious they were messing around with your head—literally. But you're Immortal. You'll heal." The memory of Warren Cochrane's psychosis pressed insistently at him, but he ignored it, refusing to worry about that yet. Duncan was stronger than Cochrane by a long shot. Even if it was psychological, he'd beat it, sooner or later. "Trust me," he said, not sure which of them he was trying to convince. "It'll be all right."

"Who's 'they,' Methos? What did they want with me?"

Methos unfolded his legs from under him and stood up, crossing to him. "That, my friend, is a very long story, and I will tell you everything I know, I promise. But first, I need to let some friends know that you're all right. Do you remember Joe Dawson, and Amanda?"

"Amanda, yes, I—" His face clouded, the same confusion flickering around the edges. It was almost as though the more he tried to focus on a memory, the more it slipped out of his grasp. "We danced the tango together."

"On the Eiffel Tower," Methos prompted.

Duncan's confusion cleared, and a look of relief took its place. "On the Tower, yes, that's right. I remember."

"That's good, Mac. She's been very worried about you. So's Joe. I'm going to call them, now, and tell them to come home, all right?"

"Is it safe for them to be here?"

A little of the tightness that had settled in Methos's chest eased. That was Duncan, all right. Even with his memories scrambled, the important things hadn't changed. "Safe enough, for now. They'll want to see you, and I don't want to think about what my life would be worth if I tried to tell them they couldn't." He smiled a little, though he wasn't sure it fooled either of them, and his hand found Duncan's shoulder. "Okay?"

It was the unhesitating trust in the dark eyes that undid him, threatened to break down what flimsy defenses he had left; he let go abruptly and turned away, moving with deliberate calm to clear the dishes as if it were any other day, as if his awareness of Duncan behind him weren't pressing on him like the heat of the sun. He'd forgotten that look. Forgotten the effect it had on him, and how much it made him want to be the man who deserved it.

 _It'll be all right._ One way or another, he'd make it true.

* * *

"Yeah, man, I hear you," Joe said, then scowled impatiently and put one hand over the phone, fending Amanda off with a look. "Will you hang on a minute?"

"I would if you'd tell me what he's saying."

He took his hand off the receiver and spoke into the phone again. "You didn't seriously expect us to wait around, did you? We'll be there in twenty minutes. Okay." He laughed a little, sounding like a man who'd just remembered how, and Amanda's heart gave a little sideways leap. "Well, I wouldn't say no. Okay, buddy, see you." He hung up, then turned on her. "You are a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"Never mind that, Joe! Tell me what he said."

"He says he thinks it worked."

She looked away from the road long enough to gauge his expression. "That's it? Just... he thinks it worked?"

"That's it. He said they haven't seen hide nor hair of trouble since they dropped Mac off, and he thinks it's safe for us to come in."

"And Duncan's okay?"

"As okay as can be expected. He's a little mixed up, but Methos thinks that'll pass."

Amanda looked sharply at him. "Mixed up how?"

"He's having trouble remembering everything. Methos says he thinks they did something to his head."

Amanda's alarm bells pinged quietly. She'd seen Immortals suffer some pretty serious head trauma, but memory loss was usually short-lived. The soft tissues healed fastest, and usually by the time they recovered from whatever had killed them, all their marbles were more or less intact. At least, presuming they'd had all their marbles to begin with—plenty of Immortals didn't.

Methos had to know that, though, which meant he was playing it down for Joe's sake. Maybe for Duncan's, too.

"What?" Joe said, watching her now.

"Nothing," she said easily, and gave a little, breathless laugh. "I can't believe it, that's all. I can't believe it's over."

"Believe it, darlin'." His grin flashed in the darkness. "Time to go home."

* * *

She didn't mean to throw herself at him, she really didn't. But then he said her name, and her fears fell away, forgotten, and next thing she knew she was in his arms, hanging on for dear life.

"Shh," he murmured against her ear, "It's okay, I'm here," and everything was all right after all, it was more than all right. Who cared that they were standing in the doorway, that Joe and Methos were watching them, seeing her cry? Not her.

"Oh, baby, I thought I'd never see you again. What the hell were you thinking? I should kill you myself for putting us all through the wringer, you know that?"

"Probably," he admitted, and the deep rumble of his voice, the strength of his arms and the way he smelled were exactly the way she remembered. You make my heart glad, he'd told her not so long ago, and she knew what he meant. Hers felt like it might throw a party and hire a mariachi band.

At last Methos cleared his throat, and she remembered herself, made herself get it together. "I should leave some for somebody else, huh?" She kept hold of Duncan's arm but made room for Joe, who looked a little watery, too.

"I can't tell you how good it is to see you, Mac." Duncan hugged him close, and she saw Joe close his eyes, hanging on for a while himself.

"Good to see you, too, Joe." He let go at last. "Methos says I have you to thank for finding me."

Joe looked at Methos, abashed. "Well, I'd say it was a joint effort."

Methos was watching all of them with a carefully neutral expression, and Amanda finally tore her gaze away from MacLeod long enough to really look at him. Methos looked... not relaxed, exactly, but his sharp edges seemed a little softer, a little less defined. Conflicting impulses tangled in her breast, kept her from hugging him, too. She wasn't used to that; usually, she went with her feelings, and didn't often question them. But whatever he felt, he had no intention of showing it, not now. "You did it," she said instead, and made the words as good as a hug, reaching out to include him in their little circle of four.

"We did it," he corrected, the smile reaching his eyes for a moment. "And now, if you don't mind, I think it might be a good idea if we moved this inside."

* * *

After a while, they ordered Indian food, enough for twice as many people, and sat around the coffee table in Methos's living room, the fireplace providing light and warmth. Duncan did a creditable job on his chicken masala, Methos noted, despite the fact that he'd put down a plate of food two hours before. He didn't say much, just listened as Joe gave them the short version of the latest Watcher developments. Amanda had news, as well. She'd talked to most of the Immortals they knew in the past twelve hours, most of whom Duncan hadn't spoken to in at least a year. Watching him carefully, Methos thought he saw him cataloging the names, the reports, filing them away for later, for a time when his memories might match the people she described. He saw, too, the gray fatigue under his eyes, the way his usual energy had deserted him. If he'd been less exhausted, he might have asked more questions; as it was, he seemed to be content to let their talk wash over him, and leave the questions for tomorrow.

"So how much do you remember?" Joe asked him at last, as if he'd read Methos's thought. "Can you tell us what happened?"

Duncan took a sip of water, eyes lost in the mid-distance. "Bits and pieces. I remember the fire. I remember being taken down, too many of them for me to fight. I remember waking up in that place." He glanced up, smiling a little, apologetic. "Nothing useful, I'm afraid."

"But what about McCormick? What about whoever it was that took you?"

Duncan shrugged as if he weren't worried, though the tension in his shoulders was plain. "Methos says it'll come back, in time."

Joe looked sharply at Methos, finally getting it. "Well, let's hope he's right."

Methos smiled over his beer. "I'm always right, Joe, you know that."

"And when I forget, I can always count on you to remind me."

"You said it."

Amanda changed the subject, then, and Joe let it go. But Methos sighed inwardly, knowing he hadn't heard the last of it.

* * *

When Methos got up to clear the cartons, Joe followed him into the kitchen. He leaned on his cane in the doorway, watching their host put food away, watching him clean up the few dishes from earlier. At last Methos came and rested his weight against the kitchen table, ankles crossed, waiting.

"How much does he remember, really?" Joe said, not sure he wanted to know.

Methos shrugged. "Time will tell."

"I gotta say, you're taking this pretty well."

"It can't be physical, you know that. So the memories are there. He's been through a hell of a lot, and it's going to take him a while to work through this, work past it. Time's the best medicine."

Joe scowled. "Yeah, and while he's working past it, these guys are still out there. I don't like it. What if this is something they did to him, to keep him from remembering something important?"

"It's entirely possible. I am not naïve, Joseph. But I'm also not going to push him on something like this tonight, not after what he's been through. It can wait."

Joe looked hard at him, hearing the iron will beneath the measured calm, the implacable steel. Once Methos planted his feet on something, good luck. "You haven't told him yet, have you?" he said shrewdly.

"Told him?"

"What exactly you were willing to trade, to get him back. What _we_ were willing to trade."

Methos gazed impassively at him. "No, I haven't told him. He doesn't need to know that tonight, either."

"In fact, if he doesn't remember what happened, he won't think to ask, is that it?"

Methos's expression turned cold. "I don't regret what we did. Do you?"

"Hell, no, because it worked. It could just as easily have gone the other way. And even if it had, I wouldn't regret it. That doesn't mean he's gonna understand."

Methos finally dropped his gaze. "No, it doesn't."

 _I am too damn tired to be having this conversation,_ Joe thought. _And so is he._ His shoulder ached like hell. He blew out a breath, surreptitiously shifting his weight, and relented. "Look, I'm not trying to give you a hard time. I just don't like this, that's all. I don't like knowing they did something to him, and we're not doing everything we can to find out what. I don't like keeping things from him."

"I don't like it either, Joe. But we're all tired. For all we know, this could be his own defense mechanism. We don't know what kinds of hell he went through. And even if they did condition him to forget, with drugs, hypnosis, what have you, how do we know he's not better off?"

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

"What I believe is that he'll recover most of what he's lost, in time. Probably a few days. And if he doesn't, we worry about it then, when we've all had a chance to rest. I'm guessing they didn't let him sleep much, if at all. Memory problems are a symptom of sleep deprivation, among other things. Adrenaline's kept him going this long, but when he does crash, he's gonna crash hard." Joe nodded wearily, and Methos found a wry smile somewhere. "Speaking of which, you look like you're about to fall over. What do you say I make up the couch in the den, and we take this up tomorrow?"

Joe sighed, conceding the field in the face of superior reasoning. "You got yourself a deal."

* * *

After the other two left the room, Duncan and Amanda fell quiet for a long moment. She studied him, while he studied something about three feet in front of him, listening to the retreating footsteps. Then he glanced over and gave her a look that was so him, so eyebrows-arched, little-boy-smile private-joke, that her breath rushed out of her in a silent laugh, relieved beyond the telling. Wordlessly, he lifted his arm and she went and curled herself into the place he made, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"It's really you," she said, letting out a deep sigh, happy. "I keep thinking I should pinch myself."

"Be glad to help with that."

"I'll bet."

They sat together for a while, watching the fire. Feeling sleepy, she thought about taking him upstairs, undressing him, holding him close until they fell asleep like that. Or maybe they could sleep right here. Right here, his arm around her, his head resting on hers, would work just fine.

She wondered what Methos thought about. What he'd feel, if he came back in here and saw them. Jealous of her? Of him? Happy for them? Who knew what Methos felt, what went on behind those olivine eyes? Less than twenty-four hours ago, he'd had his tongue inside her. Her body tingled a little, remembering. What would it be like, to be with both of them? To take Duncan upstairs and make love to him together, welcome him home properly? She smiled a little to herself, imagining it. She wouldn't kick Joe out of bed, either. And wouldn't that be something, if she could get them all to agree to it?

"What's so funny?" Duncan rumbled, smoothing her hair.

"Nothing. Glad you're here, that's all." He made a sound of agreement. And suddenly she felt close to tears, her hands shaking. "I really thought this was it, this time, you know? I mean, I tried to believe Methos was right, I told myself I believed it, but deep down, I thought—"

"It's okay." He pulled her close against the comfort of his solid, familiar strength, held on tight. "It's okay, sweetheart. You've had a rough time, but it's gonna be okay now."

She laughed in disbelief, her tears falling smudgily on his white shirt. "I think you got that backwards."

"Does it matter?"

She shook her head, let him comfort her, his arms soothing her like little else had in her long life. Like always, she remembered only when she was with him how much his body was like coming home. "I don't know what I'd do without you in the world," she confessed. "I don't want to know."

"Yeah," he said roughly, "I hear you."

She tucked her head in against his chest, listening to his heart. "Tell me something you do remember."

He swallowed, shifted a little. "I remember us dancing on the Eiffel Tower. The tango, right up on the ledge."

"Uh-huh. What else?"

"I remember you pick-pocketing me. Thought you were so bloody clever."

She smiled to herself, remembering. "You want to know a secret?"

"What's that?"

"I wanted you to catch me. If I'd wanted to rob you without you knowing it, I could have done it ten times before you knew what hit you."

"Oh, is that a fact?"

"Afraid so. Wasn't my idea, either." She reflected. "I think Rebecca thought you were cute, in a puppyish sort of way."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, you know. Big brown eyes, big feet, big—"

He was laughing, his chest shaking under her cheek. "You're shameless, aren't you? I remember that, too."

"Well, I should hope so." She snuggled closer, her eyelids getting heavy. "Can we stay here forever?"

"Sounds good," he said, stroking her hair. The fire crackled, popped. The rhythm of his heart beat steady under her hand. She sighed.

"Methos never believed it, you know. He's the one who kept us going. Kept insisting you were out there somewhere."

Duncan said nothing, only went on petting her, his hand warm against her skin.

"Want to know another secret?" she murmured.

"Mm," he said, "what's that?"

But she was asleep already, and didn't hear him.

* * *

Methos came back into the living room and stopped, catching sight of the room's two occupants snuggled together on the couch. The fire burned lower, the dark head and the bright one reflecting its soft flickers.

He went back into the hall, up the stairs to the linen closet. He found a thick blanket and two pillows, and padded quietly back downstairs.

Duncan looked up when he came near, surprising him. "Thought you were asleep," Methos whispered.

"One of us is," Duncan whispered back. He looked happy—but supremely uncomfortable. "She's out. That for her?"

Methos handed him a pillow, and he extricated himself from Amanda, who'd managed to take over most of the relatively small couch. She stirred a little, but he replaced himself with the pillows and tucked the blanket around her, and she settled almost at once.

Duncan's expression was fond, eyes soft with affection. "Sleeps like she's never had a guilty thought in her life."

"Probably hasn't," Methos murmured.

"Probably." After a moment, Duncan bent over and smoothed her short hair back, kissing her gently on the forehead. "Good night, sweetheart. Sleep well." She gave a contented murmur in her sleep, and they left her there, Methos leading the way back into the hall. "Don't suppose you have a spare couch somewhere?" Duncan asked.

"There's a futon in the library upstairs. But I'll sleep there—you take my bed. And don't even think about arguing, or I'll knock you over the head and drop you in it anyway."

Duncan's smile flashed in the shadows. "Now that I'd like to see."

"Don't tempt me." Methos turned and led the way up the stairs, not bothering with the light. On the landing, he turned back, Duncan's shape materializing behind him. "Good night, Mac. Sleep as late as you like—the whole day, if you like. Mi casa es su casa."

"Tu cama es mi cama?"

"Something like that." He hesitated, a pressure in his lungs that felt like the air in the hallway was somehow lighter, headier than it should be. The urge to close the little space between them, to align their bodies and gather him close, pulsed through him like a hunger, strong and sweet.

He thought Duncan would move, then, would step away toward the bedroom door, and the moment would pass. But he didn't, and it was Methos who moved away at last, turning toward his own bed.

Duncan's soft, "Night, Methos," followed him down the hall.


	18. Chapter 18

Some time later, Methos came from a deep sleep into full awareness. He lay in the dark, listening. Déjà vu gripped him, surreal with the echoes of dreams and memory.

He heard again the sound that had woken him: a muffled thump. It was followed by the unmistakable sound of distress in a voice he knew. In the next breath, he was up and moving in the dark, hand snaking under the futon mattress and closing unerringly on his gun. Heart racing, he slipped out of the room and down the hall, at the bedroom door in seconds. It stood open a crack. He clicked the safety off and went through, leveling the weapon at whatever threat might await him on the other side.

Duncan, facing no attacker but the darkness of his own nightmares, struggled against an invisible force. Unaware of Methos's approach, he cried out, a strangled sound.

"Mac. Mac!" Methos hurriedly put the safety back on and set his pistol aside, then crouched down and seized Duncan's arm, bracing himself to block in case instinct brought him up swinging. Duncan's breath hitched and he recoiled at the touch. He shuddered his way into waking, eyes snapping open, breathing hard, his body tensed for fight or flight. Tangled in the sheets, he twisted as though desperate to get free of invisible restraints. Methos held on hard. "Mac, it's me. It's okay. You're safe."

For long seconds Duncan didn't recognize him, his eyes fixed on some inner terror. He'd sweated through his T-shirt, his fear acrid in the room. Feeling the way he was shaking, Methos let him go and pulled the sheet away from his legs, freeing him. "You're safe, now. Everything's all right. Just a nightmare."

"Safe."

"Yes." Duncan reached out and Methos took his hand without thinking, gripping it hard. Duncan squeezed back, took a deep breath. His eyes cleared, lost their wildness. "Okay?"

Duncan let the breath out. "Yeah."

Methos held on a moment longer, then let him go, sitting back on his heels. "Water?"

Duncan swallowed hard, and closed his eyes, nodding. Methos rose and went into the bathroom. In the mirror, his hair stuck up like a four-year-old's, and there was a faint mark on his cheek where he'd creased it sleeping on his hand. He was shaking himself, he realized, and filled the cup part way, drank it down.

He filled it again for Duncan and brought it back, handing it to him wordlessly. Duncan sat up and drank, not stopping until it was empty. His breathing had steadied.

"Better?" Methos asked.

"Much," Duncan said, his voice still rough. He ran a hand through hair damp with sweat. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course you didn't." Methos sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm thinking of giving up sleep for Lent, anyway. Who needs it?"

Duncan's expression was wry. "I'd have to agree with you."

Methos didn't miss the lines of exhaustion under his eyes or the pallor of his skin. "Want to talk about it?"

"God, no."

"Fair enough." Methos studied him, wondering how far he ought to push him on it. "I might be able to help, if you'll let me."

"Sleeping pills? No thanks."

"No pills. A little light hypnosis, that's all. A simple relaxation technique. You can even try it on yourself, if you'd rather."

Duncan's mouth quirked. "Sounds kinky."

Feeling his face warm, Methos shrugged. "I could get Amanda in here to give you a back rub."

Duncan pulled his damp shirt away from his chest, grimacing. "I think maybe a hot shower. Bad enough I got you out of bed."

"It's no trouble. You don't have to do this on your own, you know." At the words, Duncan went still, with that look of listening to something only he could hear; Methos could see him struggling with it, with the confusion of nightmare and half-memory that still gripped him.

"You said that once before."

Darius's church. Duncan had believed him, then, though it had been a close thing. "That you're not alone," he said softly. "I remember. Still true, for what it's worth." The dark eyes met his. Seconds drew out between them, in which Methos couldn't have guessed his thoughts if his head depended on it. He wanted to ask what else Duncan remembered, but right now, what he needed was rest; the last thing he needed was to relive that particular nightmare.

"I know that," Duncan said at last. His voice caught a little, and he glanced away. "I'm sitting here talking to you, and I have you to thank for that, all of you. And I don't know how to—I can't ever repay you for that."

"Come on, now, you're gonna piss me off, you keep talking like that." Duncan looked up, and Methos sighed. "Look, we'll get through this. Nobody's expecting you to snap back like nothing happened." The urge to touch him bloomed, a quiet ache, and Methos tamped it down ruthlessly. He got up, turning away with effort. "Go shower, if you think it'll help. I'll find some fresh sheets."

He came back a few moments later, folded linens under his arm, and heard the water start to run as he stripped the bed. What kind of nightmare did it take to reduce a man like MacLeod to stark, sweating terror? And how much worse had the reality been? His mind skated away from the question, but he knew, sooner or later, Duncan would have to face it—and Methos would have to do the same. Whatever was keeping Duncan from remembering, the only way past it was through.

The water was still running when he finished, and he sat down on the edge of the bed, fighting a wave of exhaustion. His own nightmares had been threadbare, familiar, the scrape of asphalt and the taste of his own blood, the smell of cooked flesh and formaldehyde. He wished he knew a way to shut them off for twenty-four hours, just to give them both some peace.

The sound of the water lulled him. He should find Duncan something clean to wear, he thought. Should remember to take his gun, when he went back to bed.

He wasn't certain whether he actually slept. It might have been only a blink, a moment in which his thoughts drifted, or it might have been an hour, he couldn't be sure; the alarm clock glowed softly at half past three, but he hadn't glanced at it when he'd come in, and couldn't have said what time it had been. He blinked, dragged himself a little further into waking.

He got up and went to the bathroom door, knocking quietly, but the running water was the only sound. Guessing what he would find, he pushed open the door.

"Mac?"

Duncan was out on his feet, the long shape of him a still outline on the other side of the glass. He'd fallen asleep hunched against the wall, head resting against one arm. Methos picked up the towel folded on the sink and opened the door.

The water had run cold. Methos shut it off, then wrapped the towel around Duncan, chafing his shoulders with it. "Come on, let's get you out of there." Duncan stumbled a little but came without protest, shivering when Methos helped him step out onto the rug. He rallied enough to grip the edges of the towel, but swayed when Methos let him go long enough to reach for another one. "It's all right, I've got you. Come on." Methos shut away the awareness of him, his nakedness, and focused on the necessity of drying him off, finding him sweatpants and a T-shirt, getting him dressed and into the clean bed.

And if, once there, he found himself giving in to gravity and his own weariness, to a compulsion so powerful it knew no resistance, Duncan offered no opposition in words or otherwise, only let Methos fit himself against his back and fell, without hesitation, into a deep, profound sleep.

* * *

In terms of luxury accommodations, Methos's couch left a lot to be desired, but Joe was tired enough that his body didn't know the difference. Only blunt necessity woke him, the imperative of his bladder forcing him to rouse himself groggily and make his way to the bathroom down the hall.

Whatever his beefs with Methos, he decided when he was finished, he might have to forgive him a few for the big walk-in shower in his downstairs bathroom. The old bastard would deny it six ways to Sunday, but Joe couldn't help but think it was more than coincidence. Not many houses came complete with a huge shower and a bench seat on the ground floor. For a self-acknowledged curmudgeon, the guy could surprise the hell out of you from time to time.

He glanced out the window in the hall and saw it was raining. Hard to tell what time it was; he debated trying to get back to sleep, but knew it was hopeless. The house was too quiet, and his brain was too awake now, something triggering his sixth sense, learned over too many years of living the life he had. Something wasn't right.

He made his way down the hall, past Amanda still sound asleep in the living room, to the front window. Opening the louvered slats on the shutters, he peered out; the street outside was a picture of normality: expensive sedans carrying Washington businessmen and women to work; a guy jogging; a woman walking two sleek, well-groomed dogs. His car was still parked in the narrow driveway beside the house. He closed the slats again and turned away from the window, making a slow circuit of the small living room. He glanced at Amanda again, asleep on the couch. No sound from upstairs. You're imagining things, he told himself, and then his eyes fell on the alarm panel by the door. A little green light glowed beside the word READY, indicating the alarm was disabled.

Nothing to necessarily get excited about, but still, a slender needle of ice chilled his insides.

He checked to make sure the front door was still locked, then made his way over to the couch and shook Amanda gently awake. She opened her eyes. "What is it?"

"The alarm's off. Maybe nothing."

She sat up, immediately alert. "Anything else?"

"Haven't heard anything from the other two. Check the house."

She went upstairs, and he made his way down the hall to the kitchen. Rain dripped off the leaves in the garden, fell steadily in the birdbath, and made puddles on the stepping stones in the back yard. No sign of disturbance, but no sign of Duncan or Methos, either. The back door was locked. He turned around then, and his eyes fell on a piece of paper left in the middle of the kitchen table.

> _Went out for supplies. Be back soon._

Joe recognized MacLeod's handwriting, and his alarm ratcheted down a notch, but the news didn't really make him feel a whole lot better. Mac was still out there alone and on foot, likely with only his sword for protection. Joe would have blamed Methos for not listening to him last night when Joe had tried to tell him it was dangerous to keep Mac in the dark—but the truth was, Mac wasn't any better. The two of them lived to take years off his life.

Amanda appeared after a few moments, looking untroubled. "Methos is still asleep. Duncan's gone, and so's his coat. He must have gone out."

"Yeah, so I noticed." He showed Amanda the note. "The hell is he doing leaving without telling anyone?"

"Oh, come on, Joe, you know him."

"So you're not the least bit worried."

She shrugged. "Methos isn't worried, I'm not worried. Wherever Duncan went, I'm sure he'll be back before long." She stretched and yawned, covering it delicately with her hand. "Excuse me, I'm not really awake yet."

He grimaced and sat down, leaning his cane against the table. "Yeah, sorry about that."

"You, I'll forgive anything." She started to look through Methos's cabinets. Out of the third one, she pulled a canister and opened it, sniffing. "Ugh. What is this, tea? It smells like moldy shoes."

"Sounds delicious."

She gave up at last. "I think Duncan was right. I'm famished, and there's not enough food in here to feed a gerbil. I think I'll go freshen up—if he comes back, tell him I voted for French toast."

"Yeah, I'll do that," Joe growled.

 _Right after I give him a piece of my mind for being such a pain in my ass._

* * *

Rain spattered against the windows, the low roll of thunder like distant cannons. Methos opened his eyes in the gray light, tasting gunpowder acrid on his tongue.

The smell of fresh coffee brewing reached him, brought him back into the present, and he craned his neck to see the clock. Quarter after ten. The space beside him in the bed was empty. Duncan's coat and sword were gone, his ruined clothes with them, and if it hadn't been for the slight depression in the other pillow, Methos might have believed he'd dreamed everything since the previous afternoon. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, swallowing. It hardly seemed real.

Sleep drugged him, and even a scaldingly hot shower, judicious application of a toothbrush, and fresh clothes did little to chase away the feeling that someone had run him over slowly with a very large, very heavy truck. It would have to do, though; he could hear voices now from downstairs, and it didn't sound like they were discussing baseball scores.

It was Joe's voice that reached him first as he came down the hall. What had Amanda done now? The thought made him hasten his step.

But it wasn't Amanda who'd pissed Joe off—Methos could see that the moment he came into the kitchen. Joe was glaring his displeasure in Duncan's direction, while Amanda, from the looks of things, was trying to play peacemaker. Methos gave Duncan a swift once-over. He was making what smelled like French toast in two skillets, and the counters were laden with fresh juice in a pitcher, a plate of sliced fruit, a pot of coffee, and various other breakfast accoutrements. His coat, wet from the rain, hung on the rack by the kitchen door.

"Well, look who decided to join us," Amanda said, spotting him in the doorway.

"Hi guys, what's going on?"

Joe shot Methos a look that included him in his wrath, and started past him. "You tell him," he said to Amanda in disgust. "I just remembered some phone calls I gotta make, to some people who might actually listen to me."

"Joe—" Duncan watched him leave, his dismay plain.

Amanda sighed, and uncrossed her ankles, taking her empty glass to the sink. "It's all right, let him go. He's upset, that's all."

"Yes, I can see that." Duncan stared at the empty doorway for a moment, looking like he wasn't sure whether he should go after him or not. At last he turned and gave his attention to the thick slices of bread in the pans, flipping them one by one so their delicately golden sides faced up. "I didn't mean to upset anybody," he said at last, setting down the spatula. "Just thought breakfast might be nice."

Amanda went to him, rubbing his shoulders. "I know, but baby, you have to realize, it's been a pretty rough week. We're all a little paranoid, and with good reason. He wants you to be a little more careful, that's all. Use your head. Just because they're not after us today, doesn't mean they won't change their minds next week, or next year."

"I know that." Duncan glanced at Methos, then away, before Methos could read his expression. "I didn't know I was under house arrest."

Amanda sighed. "Yeah, well, he didn't mean it like that." She gave Duncan a kiss on the cheek, then moved away, pouring herself coffee. "Humor us for a few days, okay? We went through a lot of trouble to find you, and we'd kind of like to keep you. And don't worry, I'll talk to him." Reclaiming her spot leaning against the counter, she lifted the cup to lips. "When he calms down a little."

Methos understood now, too well, the look Joe had given him, and he couldn't even deny that the man had a point. It was dangerous for Duncan to go on operating without all the facts, and they were going to have to bring him into the loop, sooner rather than later—no matter how much he wasn't going like it. The longer they kept it from him, the less happy he'd be. Methos sighed inwardly and fetched his own coffee, lacing it heavily with sugar. "It's not just you, Mac. He's none too happy with me at the moment."

"You? Why?"

"Let's talk about it after breakfast, shall we? It can wait that long." He tried a smile, though it felt forced, the memory of their intimacy like a weight pressing on Methos's chest. Could the other two see the heat in his face? He made himself look away, nodding at the food. "Don't suppose you're in the market for a job?"

"I don't know, how well does it pay?"

"You're not staying, are you?" said Amanda, surprised. "I'd've thought you'd be out of here faster than you can say 'Address unknown, return to sender.'"

Methos shrugged, and sipped his coffee. "Remains to be seen." The beginnings of a plan were coming together in the back of his mind, but he wasn't ready to commit to it yet. A lot depended on Duncan.

The object of his preoccupation served French toast onto three plates, garnishing each with fresh berries and a sprinkling of powdered sugar, then put the last pieces onto a fourth plate and put it in the oven on warm.

He always had been a good cook, Methos thought, as the three of them ate at the kitchen table. That hadn't changed. What had changed was this painful awkwardness, this awareness that lay between them, unspoken. Amanda leapt into the conversational breach without batting an eye, nattering on about her club in Paris. She was a master at it, capable of fending off uncomfortable silences indefinitely, but all Amanda's diversionary tactics couldn't take his mind off the memory of the night before, of Duncan's body resting against his. Harder still to forget Duncan's blind terror, the way he'd trembled like an exhausted animal under Methos's hand. Methos tried to remember what it had been like between them before, their old pattern of snipe and spar and retreat, but those comfortable habits eluded him now, too much feeling knotted up inside him.

Amanda was the first to get up from the table, putting her plate in the sink and fetching the extra one out with an oven mitt. "Tell you what. You boys take care of things in here, and I'll go see how Joe's doing." Before either of them could say anything, she'd gathered fork, napkin, and what was left of the fruit, and headed off down the hall.

If Methos had thought things were awkward with Amanda in the room, it was worse when they were alone. He fought the nervous urge to clear his throat and got up, starting to clear the table. After a moment, Duncan rose and followed suit. Methos's thoughts skipped around the questions he wanted to ask: _Did you sleep? Did it help, having me there? Do you remember any more?_ None of them were innocuous, because at the heart, they were all the same question: _Are you okay? Are we?  
_

"You wash, I'll dry?" Duncan offered.

Relieved, Methos shot him a smile. "Sounds good." He turned the water on and started to fill the sink, glancing out the window at the blustery, wet day. The rain showed no signs of abating. "Pretty miserable out there," he said, reduced to talking about the weather.

"It's warming up, at least." Duncan stacked the pans beside the sink. "You have something I can use to clean the stove?"

They settled into the distraction of the mundane, making swift work of the washing and drying and putting away, and by the time they were done it was a little better. "So, what did you want to tell me?" Duncan said at last, resting on his hands on the edge of the sink.

Methos turned to face him, leaning against the counter. "Okay, but you're not gonna like it."

"So I gathered."

"Do you remember Kalas?"

Duncan frowned, making a visible effort to fit the name to a memory. "Brother Kalas, from St. Christopher's. We fought."

"Remember when?"

"I remember there was a party. Maria. They sang, and he tried to kill her."

Methos nodded. As he'd suspected, the older the memories, the clearer they were. "You fought him again, more than once. The last time, he threatened to reveal Immortals to the world if you didn't." He watched Duncan carefully, knowing he was taking a risk. If Duncan was blocking the memories himself, triggering them too soon could make things worse. "He'd gotten hold of the Watcher database, you remember?"

Duncan's frown deepened as he struggled with it. "I'm sorry, I don't."

Methos half-expected it, but that didn't make it much easier to hear. "It's all right," he said, as if unconcerned. "Doesn't matter. What matters is, we played pretty much the same card this time to get you back."

There was a little silence. Methos waited for the dropping of the other shoe.

"But you were bluffing," Duncan said at last. "You wouldn't really have—"

"No bluff, I'm afraid. We rigged it up just like Kalas did: either we got you back, or the files went public. Ditto if they tried to take me out of the picture. Amanda has a friend with high-level access, and he helped us set it up."

"You're serious."

"Told you you wouldn't like it." His voice had roughened; he swallowed against it.

Duncan pushed himself away from the sink and paced to the other side of the room. "I don't understand. Why?" Methos said nothing, and Duncan looked up at last, confusion written all over him. "Methos."

"It was a choice, Mac. We all made it. Why? That's easy, same as always. I want you to live." He thought he saw a flicker of recognition at the words. "Come on, you must have guessed there was a price. All things considered, we were willing to pay it."

"You still are," Duncan said, grasping the unspoken. "That's why we're safe here. If they come after us, you go public." Agitated, he started to pace again, his face like the thunderclouds outside. "For how long, Methos?"

"For as long as it takes."

Duncan gave him a sharp look, then paced away toward the back door. He stopped, hands on his hips, looking out at the rain. "This isn't over."

"Not by a long shot," Methos agreed. "But we've bought a little time."

"Tell me the rest. I need to know what we're up against."

"I can tell you what I know, but it isn't much, in the grand scheme of things. You're the one with the intel, so to speak."

"Except it's locked inside my head." He turned back, his frustration plain. "It doesn't do us any good if I can't remember it."

"You will. One way or another. I know you well enough to know that much."

The wood floor creaked in the hall. "Will what?" Joe said from the doorway.

Duncan stopped, tension settling in the line of his shoulders. "Methos was filling me in."

Joe shot a meaningful look at Methos. "Glad to hear it."

"Oh, come on, Joe. Give it a rest, will you? Pretend for a moment that we're all on the same side."

"I will if you will." But after a long, hard stare, Joe relented. "So, what's the plan?"

Methos sighed, and pushed himself away from the counter, heading for the living room. "Let's get comfortable, shall we?"

* * *

Listening to the three of them describe the events of the past few days, Duncan's face set. He didn't interrupt, but a deepening frown and the stiff lines of his body made his displeasure clear. Predictable, Methos thought, watching him as Amanda related her late night adventures on Duncan's roof. In Mac's way of looking at things, he was expendable; even without his memory of the last few years, it grated on him to think of anyone else taking risks on his behalf. An unexpected stab of irritation flashed through Methos. They'd all paid dearly for that blindness of his, MacLeod most of all.

"This Mulder," Duncan said when they'd finished. "How far can he be trusted?"

Methos shrugged. "The Gunmen trust him, and they don't trust much of anyone—not to mention, he's kept Immortals a secret so far. As best I can tell, our interests coincide."

"Do you think he'll help us?"

"The implication was pretty clear that we could expect to see him again, and he does seem to have an inside line to these guys. Problem is, I get the feeling he's taking a hell of a risk by talking to us. I think we have to rely on him to let us know when we can meet."

"So what are we supposed to do?" Amanda asked. "Sit here and wait for him to call? I don't know about you guys, but I kind of feel like a bug in a jar."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," said Joe.

But Duncan understood. "Until we know what their intentions are, we've no idea what the smart move is. No idea how to fight them, or to defend ourselves. We need to know what they want."

"My sentiments exactly," Methos said. Duncan glanced at him, and for once they were in accord.

Brow furrowed, intent, Duncan folded his arms against his middle and leaned forward "You said something about hypnosis."

Methos laughed a little, disbelieving, then saw he was serious. "Now, wait a minute, I'm no professional. Regression therapy takes special training. I was talking about a simple relaxation technique that anyone can learn. Not the same thing." Amanda had seen the reports in that file, the descriptions of vivisection on many of the subjects, but Joe hadn't. Duncan hadn't. The bare patches in Duncan's hair weren't visible at the moment, but Methos couldn't forget them. The man had been pushed to the edge of sanity too many times as it was.

"It's worth a shot, isn't it?" Duncan asked. "It can't be that different."

"Mac, we don't even know what's wrong. This isn't kid stuff. We could end up making things worse."

He watched Duncan chew on that for a minute. "What about Cassandra?" he said at last.

Methos held himself still, and didn't bat an eyelash. Sometimes, he thought, you really ought to keep your eye on left field. "What about her?"

"Maybe there's some way she could help. Break through this... whatever it is that's wrong with me."

Methos's reaction to that idea bordered on emotionally violent, and it took a supreme effort of will to keep the words _like hell_ from jumping past his lips. The thought of Cassandra given free rein to muck about in Duncan's head made a knot twist in Methos's stomach, an instinctive, physiological response. "Mac—" Words tangled up. He made himself stop, take a breath. "Cassandra is not exactly your biggest fan right now, not to mention how she feels about me. I wouldn't trust her with something like this on a good day. There's no way in hell I'm letting her near you now."

At the carefully controlled passion in Methos's voice, Duncan's head came up. His mouth set. "You sound awfully sure about that."

"I'm sure." Methos fought down the wave of unsettling realization. If Duncan didn't remember Bordeaux, didn't remember any of what had passed between them in those terrible days, what would it mean for them? Something leapt in him, against his will. _I know I can trust you._

He pushed it away, refusing to follow that train of thought any further. Who was he trying to protect, here? And what made him think Duncan would stand for it, any more than he ever had? "Look, you're going to have to trust me on this, okay?" Irony rested heavy at the back of his throat.

Duncan unfolded himself from his tight posture and rose, pacing, impatient with his powerlessness. "There has to be something we can try. For all we know, I'm not the only Immortal they've taken. There could be others."

Methos tried to quell his rising apprehension without much success. "Understood. But we're not rushing in blindly. Not until we give it at least a few days."

"What difference will that make?" Duncan pressed. "You said yourself, if it were physical, it would have healed by now."

"That's not exactly what I said. What I said was, I've seen Immortals heal from head injuries within a few hours. The truth is, we don't know that much about how our brains are wired. Given your history—" He broke off.

Joe skewered him with a look. "What the hell has that got to do with anything?" But Methos's eyes were for Duncan, who was listening to him now, intent.

"Go on."

Methos drew a deep breath. He glanced at Amanda, but she was quiet as a mouse, for once. "I'm not saying we don't try. I just think we ought to proceed with caution."

"What about meditation?" Joe asked at last. "Like you did with Ahriman. You still have that bowl? The one from Tibet? It's probably at the barge. I could get Amy to send it to us, or maybe we could find another one like it. There's got to be a meditation center near here."

Duncan was clearly at a loss. Regret darkened his expression. "I'm sorry, Joe, I don't know what you're talking about."

Methos recognized the look on Joe's face. He knew what it felt like from the inside. Joe covered, nodding, and Methos wondered if his own dismay had been so transparent. All the more reason to walk carefully. Duncan had called Richie Ryan his son, but seemed to have no memory of his death or the circumstances surrounding it. The grief had nearly broken him at the time. To have to face it again after what he'd been through would be devastating enough, never mind the possibility of psychological conditioning—or worse.

Methos leaned forward, breaking the moment. "Look, guys, we could order one if we had to, Tibetan Singing Bowls dot com, or some such, I'm sure. The question is, Mac, are you sure you're ready to do this?"

Duncan met his gaze, understanding him too well. "I'm not sure about anything. That's the trouble, is it not?"

"Then all the more reason—"

"Methos." The way he said it made heat bloom in Methos's chest. "I need to know what they took from me. I need to try, at least. With your help, or without it—but I'd rather it was with."

And there really was only one answer to that, wasn't there?


	19. Chapter 19

**_Friday  
1:25 p.m._ **

Amanda stood at the rain-flecked windows, watching the street, only half-listening to Methos and Joe talk about precautions, about risks. She'd never been very good at staying in one place, and knowing they were being watched didn't help; she'd spotted the unmarked van down the street a little while ago. It hadn't been there before, and knowing that it probably posed no immediate threat didn't make her any happier about it. She itched for some real monitoring equipment so she could do a proper scan of the house.

Duncan was upstairs, getting ready. He and Methos had decided Joe's idea of meditation was a good one, if only to clear his thoughts and get centered before they tried the regression. Amanda was all in favor of being prepared, but she wished they'd get on with it already. Methos's apprehension about the whole thing was starting to jangle on her nerves.

In her version of the plan, step one was get out of Dodge. Too bad nobody was asking her opinion.

At last she pulled herself away from the window, went to find her pack. "Where you going?" asked Joe, looking up.

"Nowhere." She pulled her little bug detector from its side pocket. "Going to check the place over, see if anything turns up." She met Methos's look for a second, seeking his approval. "Can't hurt, right?"

"By all means."

It wasn't much more than something to do to keep her mind occupied, and she knew that, but it was better than waiting around watching the other two snipe at each other, or thinking about the things she'd read in that file—or worse, thinking about her last attempt at a conversation with Nick, which had set the bar at an all time low for maturity on both their parts. Pretty much anything was better than that.

She glanced upstairs as she moved through the hall, admitting to herself that a part of her hoped Duncan wouldn't remember too much. He'd been so relaxed last night, so much like his old self. Sure, she wanted answers, wanted to know where Cory was, wanted to know where they stood with these people. Sure, she'd love to get some payback. But most of all, she wanted the same thing she'd wanted for the last five years where MacLeod was concerned—to see him smile again, and laugh, and get a clue about the idea that he mattered. He could say _never again_ all he wanted (and what the hell did that mean? she still didn't know) but she was getting damned tired of watching him shut off parts of himself in self-defense.

Thunder rolled in the distance, the sound vaguely ominous—and familiar, mirroring too closely the direction of her thoughts. What was it about him, anyway, that always seemed to land him at the center of every Immortal crisis? He'd always said he didn't believe in fate. Maybe he was starting to. And maybe that was worse.

He mattered, that much she was sure of. Maybe more than any of them. What had she said to him once? _You make people better._ People like her. People like Methos, much as he'd hate to admit it. She didn't know what to call it, or why sometimes it seemed like the whole world was divided into people who wanted to be close to that light, and people who couldn't stand it and wanted to snuff it out. She didn't know whether knowing the face of their enemy would make a damn bit of difference in the long run. What she did know was that whatever happened, whatever future lay waiting for them beyond these next few days, he had been worth it—and the important thing, in her mind, was making sure he knew it.

She thought of Joe, then. Of his face when he'd realized how little Duncan remembered of the last few years. Of Methos, and what he'd been through these last days. Memory or not, Duncan seemed to trust the old fox as much as he ever had. Maybe even more.

The thought gave her a moment's hesitation, and a flash of insight into part of what lay behind Methos's apprehension. She paused in her sweep, glancing across into the living room. Nothing was simple, was it? Not where those two were concerned.

Well, she'd put her faith in Methos this far, and he hadn't let her down yet. She guessed that would have to be good enough.

* * *

"As I count backwards, you will find your state of relaxation deepening. Your arms and legs will grow heavier. By the time I reach one, you will be in a deep trance, a place of sanctuary, of peace. You will be able to respond to my questions without distress. You're in control, here, and you may choose to leave this state of heightened awareness at any time, if you so desire. Think of my voice as a guide." Methos drew a steadying breath, watching Duncan carefully for any signs of distress or discomfort. He was breathing evenly, his eyes closed; his whole posture was open, relaxed. His hands rested easily on the arms of the leather chair. "I'm going to begin counting backward now. As I do so, I want you to picture a grandfather clock, its hands moving backward along with my voice. The hands begin to turn counterclockwise. Ten... nine..."

Duncan's breathing slowed as Methos counted down, the flush of his skin deepening slightly as he sank more fully into a trance state. Methos was distantly aware of Joe and Amanda looking on, but his focus was on Duncan, on the tiny flickers behind his closed eyelids, the deep rhythm of his breathing. Not for the first time, Methos wished fervently that he'd been a little quicker the day Sean Burns had died. Though the theory and basic methodology were familiar, he'd seen this done only once before, and a part of him had half-hoped it wouldn't work.

It did work, though. At least, he thought so. He wiped his palms on his jeans and tried not to think about how trustingly Duncan had put himself into Methos's hands. What had made him think this was a good idea?

"I want you to go back, now, to five days ago. Sunday night. It's early yet. Half past eight." He watched Duncan's eyes flicker slightly beneath the closed lids. "Where are you, Mac?"

"I'm at home. In the kitchen."

His voice sounded calm, even. So far, so good. "And what are you doing?"

"Making dinner."

"Describe what you're making."

"Cioppino. I'm chopping tomatoes."

Methos nodded slightly. No signs of distress, and he didn't seem to have any difficulty recalling small details from that night. "All right, Mac. I want you to picture the hands of the clock moving forward. It's later that night." A faint shudder, almost imperceptible, ran through his body. "Where are you now?"

A line appeared between Duncan's brows, and his mouth tightened, but he didn't immediately answer. Methos glanced at Joe, who at Duncan's insistence sat well across the room.

"All right, it's okay. You don't have to answer right now. Just breathe, and listen to my voice." He watched carefully as the rhythm of Duncan's breathing slowed, steadied. "You're safe, and nothing you see in this relaxed state can harm you, or anyone else. Remember, you're in control here. You understand me, Mac? "

"I understand you."

It was cool in the house, but a faint sweat prickled along Methos's spine anyway. "When you feel it's safe to do so, I want you to move forward in time to the next place you remember. When you're there, look around, and tell me what you see." Duncan was calm once more, his hands resting palm down on the arms of the chair facing Methos; nevertheless, some instinct warned Methos that the ground might shift under them at any moment.

As if in answer, he felt a change in Duncan's breathing. The eyes flickered under dark lashes.

"Where are you now?"

A heartbeat's pause, and then Duncan swallowed. His eyes stayed closed. "The white room," he said at last.

Methos leaned forward slightly. "Are you alone, or is there someone else with you?"

"Alone. But they're coming."

"Them?"

"The ones who watch."

Methos digested that. The particular phrasing was odd; he wasn't certain whether what Duncan was describing was a real place, or an image suggested to him through some form of conditioning. His inflections had taken on a dreamlike quality, which might signify only that he was sinking deeper into the hypnotic state, but this is where it got tricky. If Methos tripped over existing post-hypnotic suggestions, he wasn't sure they'd know it, nor that he knew how to negotiate the tangled threads of that kind of psychological tampering. "Tell me about the room," he suggested.

"Bright," Duncan said almost immediately. And then, after a moment, "Cold." His body had gone still, tension creeping into his posture despite the repeated suggestions Methos had given him to relax. A part of him was still fighting this, though another part of him wanted badly to remember. _A cold place, never dark,_ he'd said yesterday, and mentioned needles. Some sort of medical facility? Methos and Amanda had avoided dwelling on the possibility of tests, experiments, but avoiding it didn't make it any less likely.

Methos shifted forward in his chair, aware of the subtle current of energy that flowed between them, uncertain whether it was something that came with the heightened levels of hypnotic awareness, or something peculiar to the two of them and their unique history. He wasn't sure the answer would be one either of them felt entirely comfortable with, but he found himself unwilling to break it. That connection might be the only thing he could trust. "Tell me about what's happening there," he said at last. "What are you doing?"

"I'm waiting."

Something about the way he said it made a chill touch Methos's neck. Too much knowledge in that word, and the memory of despair.

"What are you waiting for?"

"For the others to come back."

Methos could hear the thread of tension underneath the matter-of-fact cadence, but it was held at bay by Duncan's trust in him. "Who are the others, Mac?" Methos asked, willing his voice to retain its calm, melodic rhythm.

"I don't know their names."

"Immortals?"

"No. Mortals," Duncan said, seeming to let go of his resistance a little, the memory coming easier. "I don't want them to come back."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't hold out much longer. I'm so tired. They've drugged me with something, and I'm afraid I'll tell them."

His voice was still calm, detached, still had that dreamlike quality that told Methos he was deep in the trance. "What is it they want to know?" Methos asked, pushing his own reactions aside with effort.

Duncan didn't answer right away. His eyes fluttered, and Methos thought he saw the pulse at his throat quicken.

"What is it, Mac? What's happening?"

"He's here," Duncan whispered.

"Who is?"

"The one who— the one—" But it was as though he'd pushed up against a wall through which words couldn't pass, and he stopped, a faint tremor running through him, his distress plain. Methos saw the shine of perspiration spring up at his temples. Too fast, Methos thought. Mac had skipped right past whatever had gone wrong in the parking garage, and the key to why lay in his memory of what had happened in that room. Methos was almost certain now that he'd been right—that the damage was not physical, and the memories were still there. But something was blocking them, and Mac wasn't ready to go there, not yet.

"It's all right. You don't have to tell me now, if you're not ready. When you feel it's safe to go back to the white room, I want you to let me know, okay, Mac?"

"Okay."

A light rain still fell steadily against the front windows, the rivulets casting faint shadows over Duncan's face, his hands, still spread against the arms of the chair. Methos's eyes flickered over the pale patches of skin in his dark hair, feeling the pressure of Amanda and Joe's silent regard, knowing how hard it must be for them to watch, saying nothing. Was it significant, he wondered, that MacLeod's memory loss was so selective? Amanda had told him that Duncan seemed to have a good handle on their history together, even if the details were a little sketchy, and that matched up with what he'd recalled of Kalas under Methos's questioning. It seemed to be the last few years in particular. Maybe that meant something.

Methos remembered reading that even in deep, somnambulistic hypnosis, an individual retained control of his or her own subconscious, and that rapport between the hypnotized subject and the hypnotherapist was essential. Duncan was the one who had to find his way past the barriers in his own mind; Methos could only help guide him, and give him a safe space to do it in.

Without knowing exactly how he did it, Methos drew a steadying breath, and let the unspoken current between them deepen, let it envelop the two of them in a calm, gentle sea. "You asked me to help you regain what was taken from you, Duncan, but it's up to you to find the key. It's up to you to want to find what you've lost. You understand?"

The moment's respite seemed to have been enough. "Yes, I understand," Duncan said, and he sounded calm, ready.

Methos blinked. It took him a moment to realize that it was Duncan's willingness to do as Methos asked without question that was throwing him. The only other time Duncan had come close to bowing his stiff neck like that, he'd been in the throes of a dark quickening and desperate for anyone to stop him.

"I want you to go back to a time you do remember. A time before the nightmares; a place in your memory that seems whole. Tell me what you see there."

Color suffused Duncan's skin. Though his expression altered only slightly, the smile touched every part of his face, and between one breath and the next, he looked ten years younger. "Tessa," he said, the name revealing a deep, quiet joy that needed no explanation. "In her workshop, in Seacouver."

"Do you know what year it is?"

"Nineteen ninety-three. It's September. We're going away this weekend, to the mountains, just the two of us. But she has an installation to finish, and she wants me to leave her alone so she can get the last piece done."

Methos glanced over at Joe, catching the frown of concentration that had creased his brow. Joe looked like he wanted to say something, but didn't want to interrupt; Methos tried to remember whether Joe and Duncan had known each other yet in September of ninety-three. When had Horton disappeared? October? Could be significant, though he wasn't sure how. But perhaps there was a reason Duncan had mentioned the date; perhaps his subconscious was trying to clue Methos in to something important.

"What about Richie? Is he home?"

"No, he's out on his bike. He'll be home in time for dinner, though. He knows I'm cooking."

Interesting. And matter-of-fact, as though that life, that illusion of family, had been reality for him only yesterday. _I remember a boy on a motorcycle, and I know he was my son._

"Mac, I want you to picture the hands of the clock moving forward. The days are passing, now. It's the day you're going to meet Joe Dawson. Can you tell me what day it is?"

Duncan's hands twitched on the arms of the chair, his nostrils flaring slightly. He swallowed, and Methos swore he could feel a frisson of fear spike along his aura.

"I don't want to talk about that."

Methos let out a breath. He really didn't have the training for this, and he was feeling it acutely now, uncertain how far he should push. It seemed that despite his assurances to Duncan that his memories were safe territory, something in Duncan's subconscious was still preventing him from believing that.

Out of the corner of his eye, Methos saw Joe scribble something on a piece of paper. He gave it to Amanda, who brought it over and handed it to Methos. It said: _Ask him about Gregor Powers._

"Mac, tell me about Gregor Powers."

The hesitation was slight, but definite. "I don't know anyone named Gregor Powers."

Methos met Joe's eyes, and saw his own sudden insight reflected there. Joe's instincts were apparently still as sharp as ever. "All right, Mac, I want you to move forward in time, now. Picture the days and months passing, one by one, perhaps as pages on a calendar. It's the sixth of March, nineteen ninety-five. You've just left Adam Pierson's flat. Can you tell me about him? What does he look like?"

A small, vertical furrow appeared between Duncan's brows. "I don't know who you're talking about. I don't know that name."

Methos sat back in his chair. What had been a hunch gained solidity: it was as though Duncan had deliberately and systematically removed all knowledge of those who might be endangered by their association with him. _I'll tell them,_ he'd said. _I'm afraid I'll tell them._ Tessa was safe; they couldn't harm her. Richie was safe. But everything between then and now...

Methos didn't begin to know how, exactly, such a thing was possible, but he knew the human mind was capable of remarkable feats when under enough duress, and an Immortal's psyche, even more so. They'd seen something like it before with Warren Cochrane, and when you got right down to it, it didn't surprise him in the least that MacLeod would be capable of this kind of drastic, self-destructive desperation if his friends were at stake. Wasn't it perfectly in line with every other desperate, foolish, self-sacrificing move he'd made throughout this whole bloody mess?

If Methos was right, it was good news and bad news. The good news was that if Duncan had done this to himself, they could stop worrying about the possibility he'd been turned into some kind of Manchurian Candidate time bomb. The bad news was that they could all write off whatever best-case scenario hopes they'd entertained for some big revelation, some crucial weakness in their adversaries' defenses to pop out of Duncan's blocked memories like a girl out of a cake.

Methos sighed inwardly and leaned forward, rubbing his hands over his face. He would have been glad to call it a day, and not have to ask Duncan to push past this. If Methos's guess was right, any memories of what, exactly, had been done to him in that place were just as well forgotten, and Methos would have willingly let them stay buried for eternity. He'd find out who was responsible some other way, and be more than happy to see Duncan put the nightmares behind him. He'd been telling the truth when he'd told Joe he believed the rest of Duncan's memories would return on their own. Cochrane had regained everything, in time, and he didn't believe for a second that MacLeod's subconscious would stop him remembering Joe Dawson and what their friendship had meant to him for very long.

Problem was, Duncan wouldn't want him to stop. Not when one Immortal was already dead, and more might be imprisoned in that place. _No one else dies because of me._ That hadn't changed. It was what he'd really been saying when he'd asked Methos to help him. Please don't let anyone else die because of me.

Duncan was waiting, the gray afternoon light casting him in shadows. Gooseflesh had risen on his bare arms, the memory of that room registering on some visceral level, and Methos wished he'd thought to light a fire before they'd started. It seemed like a good sign, though, an indication that Duncan knew he needed to find a way past the barricades he'd put up.

"Duncan, I want you to think now about the part of yourself that's keeping you from remembering. That part of you believes that you need to keep your memories hidden in a secret place, a place where not even your own waking mind can find them. It's guarding that place from us, now, because it thinks that's the only way you can protect your friends. There's another part of you, the part that's trying to remember, because you know it's important that we know what happened to you. That's the part that's listening to me now."

"Yes," Duncan said readily.

"And that part knows that it's safe to remember."

The barest of hesitations. "Yes."

"While you're in this relaxed state, it's possible for us to talk to the part of your mind that's keeping you from remembering, and that part of your self can answer. " He let Duncan adjust to that idea. "Let's test it, shall we? I'm going to speak now to that part of you that's standing guard over your memories." He paused for a moment, hoping he knew what the hell he was doing. "Can that part of you hear me?"

"I hear you." His voice had deepened slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Methos knew on some instinctive level that between one moment and the next, the man sitting before him had taken on the weight of five years' grief and loss, of battles fought and crucibles endured.

"Mac, is the white room a real place?"

"Yes." No hesitation this time.

"All right. I want you to go back there now. I want you to think of the things that happen here as a movie. Imagine that you're watching from a comfortable place, a safe place. Think of everything you see as images on a screen, and know that they cannot harm you." In some way he couldn't have defined, he did his best to tell Duncan the same thing without words: _you're safe. Nothing can harm you here._ He watched Duncan's responses carefully, but other than a slight flicker of his eyelashes, he was still, waiting. "Tell me what's happening."

"They're injecting me with something."

"Are you awake?"

"Yes. It hurts too much to sleep." His voice was calm, dispassionate.

"What day is it? How long have you been there?"

"I don't know."

In a hypnotic state, awareness of time was usually heightened. If he couldn't answer that question, it was likely that they'd kept him drugged or worse for much of the time. "Do you remember being brought to this place?"

"I don't think so. It's difficult... the drugs make it hard to keep things straight."

"Can you see the men who are holding you? Their faces?"

He half-expected resistance, but Duncan remained open, responsive. "Some of them. Two are doctors, I think. Japanese... older. They wear masks, but one has a round face like the moon. His name is Oshiro." A thread of quiet loathing wound its way into the even cadence of his voice.

Surgical masks, he meant, Methos realized. His heart rate accelerated a little, too many conflicted impulses tangled in his chest. Underneath them all, that quiet fury he'd set aside kindled and began to smolder. "Describe what's happening now," he suggested, keeping a tight grip on it.

There was a pause, and when Duncan's voice came again, it was quiet with apprehension. "They're coming back."

"The others?"

Duncan's lips parted as his breath came faster. His hands twitched again, as though his body were trying to shrug off the lassitude of his relaxed physical state; Methos knew that if he broke it, he'd not soon be able to achieve the calm necessary to try again.

"It's all right. You don't have to answer anything you don't want to. But you know it's important that we uncover this memory. That's why you wanted to do this."

"Yes," he said after a moment. It sounded strained.

Duncan was beginning to tire, and Methos could feel how brittle he was, the danger that lurked beneath the surface. The dark, tightly coiled thing in Methos's belly urged him to press Duncan for more names, for the faces of those who had hurt him and maybe worse than hurt him, but there were other questions that had to come first. "Duncan, are there other Immortals where you are?"

"I don't know. Can't sense them. I don't—" He drew a breath, sharp, soft. Suddenly that spike of fear came again, unseen, but Methos felt it like his own.

"What's the matter?"

"Don't ask me." Duncan's eyes were open suddenly, seeing something that wasn't there.

"Tell me what's happening, Mac."

 _"No!"_ And Duncan was out of his chair, gone from relaxed stillness to wild desperation between one heartbeat and the next; Methos reacted swiftly and without thought, catching Duncan before he could run blindly into the chair behind him and fall. Methos didn't try to hold on to the other man's wrists, knowing instinct would interpret it as an attack and react accordingly. Instead, he reached for Duncan with blind instinct of his own, taking his face in his hands and stepping close.

"Mac. Mac! It's all right. You're all right. Let it go, come back now."

Duncan shuddered on an indrawn breath, but stilled under his hands. His eyes were wide, panicked—but, Methos saw after a moment, sane. "Methos?"

Methos let his hands fall and took a half step back. Acute awareness of his own sudden exposure stabbed through him, but he pushed it aside. "That's it. You're okay, now. Nobody's going to hurt you."

"Mac?"

That was Joe, worried as Methos had ever heard him. His voice seemed to ground Duncan the rest of the way; he pulled back in on himself, the panic fading. As if only then fully aware of where he was, and when, he glanced at Joe and Amanda and steadied himself, turning and pacing a few steps away. "I'm okay." Amanda had risen to her feet when Methos did, but she seemed to read Duncan's need for space and stayed where she was.

Methos fell back on his medical training, assessing. Deep hypnosis was supposed to relax the subject, to leave them with a sense of euphoria and peace. Duncan looked about as far from that as a man could get, but all things considered, Methos had seen him look worse. As if feeling Methos's eyes on him, he turned, his expression intent. "What happened?"

"Well," Methos said dryly, "at a guess, I'd say _you_ happened."

Duncan's mouth tightened. "Right. Now, mind telling me what that's supposed to mean?"

Methos sighed. "Amanda, will you fix us some tea? Something non-caffeinated would be best. Mac, sit down, take it easy for a minute, and we'll talk." Amanda gave him a look like she might give him grief over it later, but she disappeared down the hall without comment.

They sat, Joe taking the armchair Duncan had vacated; Duncan took the couch and sat perpendicular to the two of them, his elbows resting on his knees. "How much of that do you remember, Mac?" Joe asked.

"All of it... at least, I think so. But I'm not sure I understand it all." He glanced at Methos, troubled. "I'm blocking my own memories somehow?"

"Certainly seems that way."

"But how is that possible?"

"Well, if I thought you remembered what happened to Warren Cochrane, that might be a bit easier to explain."

Duncan's frown deepened. "Cochrane? What about him?"

Methos smiled tightly. "Like I said."

"This is gonna take some getting used to," Joe said, scowling.

Hearing the heaviness in his voice, Duncan looked over. "I'm sorry, Joe. I really am."

Joe forced a half-chuckle. "I guess I should be flattered, huh?" His expression softened. "It's okay, Mac. You were doing your best to protect us."

"Some things never change," Methos said, trying to lighten the mood. It came out a little less flippant than he meant it to, but maybe the other two would chalk it up to the general air of tension in the room.

Duncan drew a deep breath, then let it out, running a hand through his hair. He grimaced slightly when his fingertips brushed over the small shaved patches of bare skin. "So what now? If I'm doing this myself, and I'm aware of it, shouldn't that be enough?"

Methos shrugged. "Didn't work that way for Cochrane, I'm afraid. But you told me he did remember on his own, eventually. No reason to think that won't be true for you as well." It wasn't, of course, strictly true—Duncan had told him he'd had to push Cochrane pretty hard—but it was close enough to the truth for now.

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, I suggest we count ourselves lucky that whatever you did, it seems to have worked. It sounds to me as though you stopped them getting their hands on anyone else."

"But I don't remember anything outside that room. I don't even know where they were holding me. How can you be sure?"

"Mac, whatever blocks you put in place, they're still holding, even under deep hypnosis. If you couldn't break through them willingly under hypnotic suggestion, I doubt very much that you did so under coercion."

Duncan looked hard at him, as though he wanted to believe it, but was afraid to let himself do so. "I hope you're right."

They fell silent, each dwelling on his own thoughts, until Amanda came back in with the tea. "So, what's the deal, guys? Are we back to square one? Or do we try and find out more about this Oshiro son of a bitch?"

Methos shot a bemused look at Duncan. "Is she always this impatient?"

He realized as the words left his lips that it was a mistake, and ill-timed, but Duncan surprised him, the lines of worry relaxing into a tired smile. "You're asking me?"

Methos saw only then how exhausted he still was, and how much the session had taken out of him. "It was more of a rhetorical question," he admitted. Amanda gave him a look, but set the tray on the table between them and sat down. Methos leaned forward to pour, weighing options. Somewhere, it occurred to him that he was getting entirely too comfortable with running the show, and it added to the vague, unsettled questions he'd pushed away, about what to call what was happening between him and MacLeod.

Things being what they were, though, such questions would have to wait. He sat back with studied casualness, cup cradled between his hands. "My opinion?" he said at last. "We've played our hand. From here on out, things are going to get messier, and if we want to keep playing the game, we're going to have to get ready for the long haul. Joe's going to have to make sure the Watchers carry out what he started. Amanda, the best thing you can do is make sure Bert Myers keeps breathing, and keep on his good side. As for me, it's time I put all those research skills to work. From what we saw, it could take months, or longer, to put together any kind of complete picture. Our friend Mulder said he's spent the better part of his life trying to work out who's pulling all the strings."

Amanda's expression was skeptical. "That's it. Go on about our business, like there's not a big sign flashing over all our heads that says, 'come and get me.' You do know there's a surveillance van down the street right this minute, right?"

Joe and Duncan started at that, but Methos was unperturbed. "It's been around since yesterday, at least. I figured it was best to let them be until we worked out a plan—might have proved useful."

Amanda was momentarily nonplused, but then quirked a smile in reluctant admiration. "Have I mentioned lately that I'm glad you're on our side?"

"Speak for yourself," Joe cut in, irritated that they'd both kept him out of the loop. Duncan's face said he echoed the sentiment.

Methos's gaze swept around the little table. "Look, trust me, guys. If I thought it would help to change our names and move to Bora Bora, I'd be on the first boat. But we've gone too far for that. There's no getting past it. And far as I can tell, nothing Mac can tell us changes things, not in any way that matters."

At last, grudgingly, Joe said, "Assuming I agree with you, that means Amanda and I are back in Paris for the foreseeable future. That's not exactly an option for Mac right now. Even if he's not officially dead in France, too many people saw what happened—and besides, the two of you are pretty much past your due date there."

If Methos was a little too casual, too careful not look at MacLeod, he hoped it went unnoticed. "He can stay with me for as long as he needs to." He felt Duncan's eyes on him, then, and the urge to swallow was strong; he resisted it with effort. "The important thing is that we keep in close contact, and make certain the dead man switch stays in place, so that if anything happens to any one of us... that's all she wrote."

Amanda made a face. "I really wish we could come up with a better name. 'Dead man switch'—it doesn't exactly inspire confidence, you know?"

Joe chuckled in spite of himself. "Lady's got a point."

It seemed to defuse some of the tension. "I'll take it under advisement," Methos said. He finally glanced at Duncan, then, who was being uncharacteristically quiet; simple exhaustion, Methos saw at once, and maybe a certain shakiness left over from the intense hypnotherapy session. "Mac, you think you could sleep for a while?"

"Yeah," he admitted, "I think I could. You mind?"

"No, it's a good idea. I've got to get a new computer, and there's something else I want to take care of while I'm out. Amanda, Joe, you think you guys can manage on your own for a bit?"

"Depends," Amanda said. "Any decent gourmet take-out around here? I'm starving." At Methos's bemused look, she shrugged. "What? A girl's gotta eat."

* * *

Heading up the stairs, Duncan's legs felt so heavy, he might as well have been climbing the last twenty feet of Everest. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so stupidly mind-numb with exhaustion.

Couldn't remember—that was funny. He'd have to remember to laugh about that later.

He felt the others' eyes on him, and held it together until he was in Methos's bedroom, the door safely shut behind him. Getting undressed seemed like it would take too much effort, so he didn't bother, only toed off his shoes, lifted the duvet, and crawled under it. Had he slept in that place, that bright, cold nightmare of a place that danced around the edges of memory? He couldn't be sure. The memory felt closer now, more real, and he kept getting flashes that came without warning. The burn of the needle, yellow-bright liquid searing his veins. The harsher burn of electrocution jolting through him over and over, and a voice he couldn't quite hear, a face he couldn't quite see, asking him... asking him...

He had to heave the covers off then and rush to the bathroom, where he almost didn't make it before he was sick. After, he leaned over the commode and braced himself against the counter, shuddering, his breath coming harsh. His head hurt, dull pain rolling in black waves behind his eyes; he stood there for long minutes before he was sure the worst of it had passed and it was safe to go back to bed. He rinsed his mouth and made it back under the covers.

 _You_ happened, Methos had said. If he'd done this to himself, he wished he knew how to undo it. Except for the part where he wasn't sure he wanted to remember any more than he already had. Maybe it was a blessing.

On that thought, mercifully, he slept.

* * *

The van door swung open on two equally comical expressions. A gust of wind blew in a cold sheet of drizzle, and with it a tall, angular man in a gray coat, wielding a Glock semi-automatic. He jumped into the back of the van and pulled the door shut behind him.

"Hello, boys. We're going to have a little talk, you and I. Don't worry, the shiny toy is for show—just so you don't get any stupid ideas. Yes, like that. Hands where I can see them, please." The surveillance tech slowly moved his hands away from the radio, keeping them raised. Methos smiled his approval and sat down on the edge of an instrument board, heedless of his coat dripping on the equipment. "Very good. Now, listen up. I want you to do two things for me. One, you are going to pack it up as soon as I've gone, and drive back under whatever rock you came from, someplace far away from here. And two, you are going to tell the nice people you work for, in no uncertain terms, that if I or my friends catch so much as a whiff of your cologne or the exhaust from your tailpipe, the deal is off. This was not part of our arrangement, and either they get the message loud and clear the first time, or I start leaking video clips to the evening news. Got that? Good, excellent. Nice chaps. So glad we could do business."

Their startled-rabbit expressions had scarcely altered by the time he had the back door open again and was hopping out into the rain, pocketing the Glock. Methos swung the van door shut before they could get any really stupid ideas, got back into the car, and beeped the horn twice before pulling away from the curb.

He turned the corner, then swung the car around and parked it. While he waited, he pulled out the cell he'd borrowed along with Joe's car and placed a call to a private security firm he'd used before, arranging for them to come and sweep his place. As he was ending the call, he was rewarded by the appearance of the unmarked van. He watched it drive off; when it was out of sight, he called the house. "I took care of our friends down the block," he said, when Amanda picked up.

"I see. And when you say 'took care of,' you mean...?"

"I mean I asked them nicely to leave, and they obliged out of the goodness of their hearts. Good heavens, woman, what do you take me for?"

"At this point, Methos, nothing you'd do could surprise me."

"That could be considered a challenge."

"So did you call for a reason, other than to show off?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. There's a business card in my top left desk drawer for a private security firm. I've called them and ordered a full sweep of the house—they should be there before I get back. Can you make certain they don't disturb Mac while they're at it?"

"Sure thing." There was a thoughtful pause at the other end of the line, and he could practically hear the wheels turning. "I still think you and I would have made a great team."

He smiled, propping the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he pulled away from the curb. "True enough. Maybe in the next life." Something light, warm and soft as a summer wind, moved through him unexpectedly, and it came home to him that he was starting to believe they'd make it through this in one piece.

She sighed dramatically. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where I am."

"Goodbye, Amanda."

"'Bye, Methos."

* * *

Once upon a time, Joe Dawson believed he'd never find the Amazing Amanda anything less than a pleasure to the senses and a delight to all mankind. That went to show that anybody could wear on you when you'd spent the last five days straight in their company, and both parties involved were hungry, irritable, and bored out of their skulls.

Methos returned not long after the small swarm of security people left ( _they may have primo gear, but they're still amateurs,_ was Amanda's derisive opinion) and right about the time Amanda was starting to seriously wear on Joe's last nerve. Methos disappeared into his office with the new computer and little sympathy for their moods; Amanda announced she was going to find sushi for the troops, and made herself scarce. Through it all, Mac slept like the dead, and it was almost enough to make the rest of the afternoon's frustrations worth it.

Methos didn't surface for dinner, only thanked Amanda and took his raw fish and seaweed back into his office. Joe chose to take the roast chicken and mashed potatoes Amanda brought him as the peace offering she intended, and they ate in companionable enough silence at the kitchen table. After, she went to harass Methos for a while, and Joe took his laptop and went out into the garden.

The night was clear and cool, the rain finally over. Joe wiped off a bench with his hand before sitting, and it was there that Mac found him half an hour later. He didn't look great, Joe judged with a critical eye, but he did look a little less like he was going to fall down where he stood.

"Hey, Joe."

"Hey, look who's back in the world of the living. Feel better?"

"A bit. Where is everybody?"

"Methos is holed up in his office with his new toy, probably getting in trouble. Last I saw Amanda, I think she was aiding and abetting. There's sushi in the fridge, if you want some."

"Maybe later." Mac glanced at the chair beside him, a hint of uncertainty in his manner. "Mind if I join you?"

"Hell, no. Long as you don't mind a wet seat."

A smile touched Mac's lips, and he sat. "I think I'll live."

"And thank heaven for that," Joe said, returning the smile.

It embarrassed him, Joe could see that, but Mac didn't pretend to misunderstand. In some ways, he was more open than Joe remembered him, his eyes easier to read despite the hesitance. In other ways, Joe could feel the distance between them. He and Mac had never been big on showing physical affection with each other—people were always a little hesitant to touch him when he was wearing his legs, and he was used to that—but he'd never realized how open Mac usually was with his body language, how comfortable he always was in Joe's space. It was a small difference, the distance Mac kept now, but it served to remind him that things weren't quite what they should be. It hit him again, low in the gut, that Methos had said Mac didn't remember how Richie had died. Didn't remember Ahriman, or what they'd been through together that spring, two years before. It still felt like yesterday to him.

Joe closed the laptop, leaning back on the iron bench. The soft night wind stirred the wet leaves overhead; he debated with himself, but in the end, he just... he really needed to know. "So how much do you remember about us, really?" Mac gave a soft chuckle at that, and Joe looked at him. "What?"

"Amanda asked me the same thing last night."

Joe shrugged a little and let his arms drop, feeling awkward. "It's a natural question, I guess. Never mind, forget I—"

"It's okay. I don't mind." But his eyes were sad, dark with it in the moonlight. "You sure you want to know?"

"Yeah, maybe not," Joe said after a minute, trying for a smile and suspecting he didn't quite make it. He looked away.

To his surprise, Mac's hand found his shoulder then, and it wasn't the same, but it helped. "Tell you what. When this is all over, you've got my permission to give me a hard time about it for the next twenty years or so. Deal?"

Joe let out a breath, and it was almost a laugh. "Deal." He closed a hand over Mac's on his shoulder and squeezed, and they sat like that until Mac finally squeezed back, and let him go.

"Getting kind of chilly out here."

"Yeah," Joe said, and Mac took the laptop and led the way inside.

Amanda was curled up on the couch, looking like she'd hocked her favorite sapphire brooch. While Mac went to work building a fire, Joe sat down beside her. "You okay?"

"Right as rain," she said breezily, but shifted toward him immediately when he sat down, an unmistakable request for his good arm; he gave it to her, figuring that meant they were back on good terms. She snuggled up beside him, watching Mac work. "How's things with you?"

"Same, no complaints." And it was true, wasn't it? All things considered. "Methos gonna join us some time tonight, or he still communing with his microprocessors in there?"

"Hmm? Oh, I don't know. He's online—doing research, I think. You know him. Could be days."

He grunted. "So, you about ready to go home?"

"Mm," she said, noncommittal. "You?"

"Couldn't have said it better." They fell quiet, watching as Mac coaxed the first flames forth, then fed them kindling until they were flickering steadily.

Mac rose, dusting his hands off on his jeans, and he was about to say something when he stopped, a slight frown drawing his brows together. He looked at Amanda oddly. "Do you...?"

And Joe felt Amanda suddenly stiffen at his side, then straighten up, on alert. Her eyes went to the front door.

And then she scowled, outrage and disbelief warring in her expression. "Son of a bitch. He didn't."

The doorbell rang, and a second later there was a heavy knock at the door. Methos had already appeared in the hallway, making no sound, and Joe wished he'd had his coat on in the garden, because then he'd have his gun. He started to get up, weighing whether he could get to it.

"He _did._ I don't believe it." Amanda was already striding toward the door. "Trust me, guys, this one's for me. I'd know that pounding anywhere." She reached the door and opened it, not bothering to go for her sword in the coat stand.

On the other side stood a man Joe knew all too well. A man he'd once lied to for Amanda's sake, and who had yet to forgive him for it.

"Amanda," the man said simply, somehow drawing it out to imply the unspoken _Satan, thy name is_ that preceded it.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she snapped, looking for a moment as though she regretted not going for the sword. "No, never mind, why do I even ask? Myers. I knew he'd rat me out, that little—" She made a sound of frustration, and throttled an imaginary Myers (who happened to be at least partly responsible for their continued survival at the moment) with one clenched fist. "I'm gonna kill him."

But she was drinking in the sight of the man at the door, and something in her whole manner had shifted, lighting her up from the inside out. Even Joe could see that, even from twenty feet away.

Nick Wolfe stood on the doorstep and drank her in the same way, eyes taking in the three of them behind her, swiftly cataloging what Joe suspected was an impressive amount of detail for a few seconds's perusal, then returning to Amanda. He had to be pissed as hell that she'd ditched him again after the stunt she'd pulled in Toronto. He had to be furious, in fact. But he kept all that under wraps and let himself get an eyeful, a slow, knowing smile spreading over his face. "No, you're not."

"No, I'm not," she agreed with a sigh, and let him in.


	20. Chapter 20

Nick had barely crossed the threshold when Amanda looked him up and down, then grabbed him by the lapel and tugged him down the hall.

"Guys, excuse us a minute. Nick and I need a word."

"Amanda—" Nick protested, caught off balance. Instinct made him want to plant his feet, but he was aware of three pairs of eyes watching them. Dawson was probably laughing at him, the bastard. The sharp-featured man leaning in the doorway looked amused, too; between one breath and the next, mirth had replaced the cold, assessing look the man had been giving him. The third guy, quiet and furthest from the door, was hardest to read, but Nick thought he could see sympathy flicker over the man's face. That had to be MacLeod.

Amanda plainly meant business, and wasn't waiting for him to observe the niceties of introductions. It was either go with her, or have a scene right here in the hall, and the thought of these three taking notes didn't exactly appeal. He could feel their eyes on him as Amanda dragged him in her wake.

She didn't let go until she'd pulled him into the kitchen and shut the door. Then she turned on him. "I thought I told you to stay out of this."

Sleek and fierce in her tight black T-shirt, dark eyes flashing, she looked good enough to eat. And how was that fair? Nick felt rumpled and grungy and in need of a shave. "And I thought we had a deal," he said, trying to regain some kind of equal footing, to keep this from getting out of hand.

But her nostrils flared at that, and he saw her answering anger, sharper than he'd expected. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

Wait a second. Wasn't he the injured party, here? Nick felt the goad of her anger like a sharp stick poking a bruise, and found himself losing his grip on the lid he'd been keeping on everything. It was a relief. His voice dropped, roughening. "I'm talking about the part where we agreed this was a partnership. Remember? As in, equal partners?"

She made an airy, dismissive gesture. "I'm sorry, how did that go again? The memory starts to go after the first thousand years or so."

Adrenaline jolted in Nick's system, days of frustration and anger he'd kept on a low simmer finally given heat.

"Look, you can't just disappear for a week, start playing international super spy with Myers behind my back, then call me up and act like I'm supposed to sit tight and act like everything's normal!"

"Well, excuse me, but obviously, I can."

Nick threw up his hands. He could just— _throttle_ her. It was like she did this to him on purpose. "You're impossible. I can't talk to you."

"You say that like it's news!"

"Goddammit, Amanda!" Nick made a sound of pure frustration and turned away, tempted to slam his fist into a wall instead of her smug face. She always had to be so goddamned cool and on top of the situation, no matter what he said, no matter how crazy she made him. He'd just flown across an ocean to have the same goddamned conversation they always had. What the hell had he been thinking?

He closed his eyes, made himself take a deep breath, get it together. At last he looked at her, pleading for her to please, give it a rest, just _talk_ to him for once. "Amanda, this has got to stop. We can't keep doing this."

And whatever was in his face, it breached her tight defenses as if they were nothing—as if the whole thing had been flash powder and sleight of hand, some act she thought she had to put on for God knows what audience. She looked at him, anger slipping away until he could see the real emotion underneath, and he remembered with a wrench in his gut why it always seemed like it was worth it with her. Why it didn't matter how many times she pulled this crap, he'd still keep coming back.

She turned away and put her hands in her hair, long fingers clenching in the short white strands, and moved as if she couldn't stand still under the weight of his gaze.

"You're right. You're right." She closed her eyes and let out a breath, not quite a laugh. Then looked at him, something half pain and half laughter and wholly vulnerable in her face. "I don't know what it is, but I swear, you bring out the worst in me, you know that?"

He had to swallow against the tightness that pressed at his throat. "Why do you think that is?"

She didn't answer that, just turned back and moved closer, watching his face. "Nick, why did you come?"

"I'm starting to wonder," he said in self-defense, but the look on her face made him regret it. What was it about her that made him want to reach for the knife and cut his heart out for her every time? "Because I was worried about you, why do you think? Because I wanted to see you with my own eyes. Because I wanted to look you in the face when I told you I was sorry." His voice cracked on the last, and he felt like an idiot.

But her eyes were wide and dark, her voice small. "Sorry. For what?"

"For what I said last night, when you called. I never meant—I didn't mean for it to come out like that."

She laughed a little, low in her throat. "Like what? Like an ultimatum?"

"Yeah, like that." He watched her face, looking for signs that it might be too little, too late. That underneath all the theatrics, she really was angry with him for pushing her too far. He didn't know how to say what he'd been most afraid of—that she'd disappear, and this time there wouldn't even be a lie to keep him from following her. "I thought maybe you'd—You know. Do that thing that you do, where you take me seriously."

Her eyes glistened, suddenly bright, and she shook her head, a movement so slight he wasn't sure he'd seen it. "Nick. I'm coming back, okay? You're not the only one who didn't mean half the things they said last night."

Nick said nothing for a moment, digesting that. "So it really is over?" he asked at last. "This whole thing with your friend going missing?"

She sighed, and glanced at the kitchen door, relief evident in her voice. "Yeah, it really is. Honest. Cross my heart."

Nick's lips quirked. "Well, I feel a little silly now."

Her eyes came back to his, and he had no name for the soft expression that transformed hers. "No." She stepped forward, and took his face in her hands. "No, it's not silly. It's sweet. And it means a lot to me that you came." She stroked his eyebrow gently with her thumb, studying him, then shifted closer and let him put his arms around her as if it were a normal, everyday thing. He felt her hands in his hair, and he rested his chin on her shoulder, holding tight for a moment.

She moved then, and he let her go, doing his best not to think about it. "When are you coming home?" His voice sounded rougher than he meant it to.

"Tomorrow, if you want."

He huffed a surprised laugh. "If _I_ want? That's a first." Nick glanced toward the door. "What about your friends?"

She tilted a smile up at him, and shrugged. "Things are starting to get pretty claustrophobic around here as it is."

He gave a wry look at that. "Sorry. Guess I didn't exactly help matters."

"I think we'll live." She considered. "For one night, anyway. Longer than that..." She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "Could get ugly."

They looked at each other, and Nick still felt like an idiot, but the pressure that had been squeezing his chest was gone for the first time in a week. "So," he said finally, "you going to introduce me, or what?"

* * *

In Joe's opinion, it was a little touch and go there for a while, but somehow the five of them managed to get through the next twenty-four hours without casualties. To his surprise, Amanda and Nick seemed the least ragged around the edges by supper time the next day; either they were getting better at handling this whatever it was they had going, or they were getting better at keeping it to themselves. Given his previous observations of their behavior, he'd bet on the first.

Methos, the coward, retreated to his office and more or less barricaded himself in there; Mac took over hospitality and KP duties, which left Joe to spend the day on the phone, making travel arrangements and trying to coordinate a series of conference calls with his assistant directors that left him frustrated, irritable, and struggling with a headache the size of Mount Fuji.

It did occur to him, watching Mac and Methos take refuge in their respective domains, that the three of them were becoming inveterate bachelors lately, too used to their own company. Joe could tell from Methos's expression, when everybody was finally out the door and packing into cars to head to the airport, that twenty-four hours was about the limit of his patience.

A throng of unloading red-eye passengers clogged the departure lanes at Dulles International, and it took the cabby a while to slowly nose the car close to the curb. Once there, MacLeod got out and retrieved Joe's duffle from the back while Joe paid the driver. Joe had gotten himself to the curb when Methos pulled up behind them in Joe's car, and Methos, Amanda, and Wolfe got out and came to join them.

"Could've saved yourself a trip," Joe said to Wolfe, feeling some sympathy for the guy. Regardless of the day's stresses, two trans-Atlantic flights in twenty-four hours wasn't exactly his idea of a good time.

"Don't remind me," Wolfe said, but it lacked the sullen edge it might have had, and his eyes on Amanda were more fond than bitter. Amanda's disposition was sunnier, too, than it had been in days, and she looked more relaxed than Joe could remember ever seeing her. Whatever they'd talked about—or not talked about—in the kitchen last night, it seemed like they'd come to satisfactory terms. The two of them stood now with a companionable foot or so of space between them, Nick carrying Amanda's bag and his own without complaint.

Joe turned his attention to MacLeod, standing close with his hands in his pockets. Still hard to believe he was real. Joe knew he had to get back to Paris, and it would ease his mind to be closer to Amy, better able to watch out for her. But now that the moment was here, it felt too soon and he didn't want to go. "So," he said, feeling awkward. "Guess this is it."

"Don't worry, Joe," Mac said, his eyes gentle, seeing too much. "We'll work it out one way or another. I won't let too much time go by before we see each other again."

Joe felt emotion clog his throat, and he had to fight a sudden heat behind his eyes. "You sure you're good with staying here? 'Cause I been thinking, I ain't never been to Australia. I hear it's not such a bad place to retire."

"I'm good," Mac said, not looking at Methos. "For the duration, at least."

Joe was aware of the others watching them, but after a moment he reached out and laid a hand on his friend's shoulder, then decided the hell with it and pulled him for a hug. He didn't much care that it pulled the stitches in his shoulder; Mac freed his hands and hugged back, and if he felt awkward about it, he didn't let it show. "Be safe, Joe. I'll miss you."

 _Dammit._ Joe Dawson squeezed his eyes closed for a second, let his arm tighten, then let it fall and ducked his head, something momentarily obscuring his vision.

Methos was there, steadying Joe with an unseen, unobtrusive hand, barely there against his back, and it might have been the thing that pushed him into a truly embarrassing emotional display right there curbside—except it grounded him instead, calmed him unexpectedly. Methos had seen him at his worst, had seen him lose it more than once, and somehow that made it okay. Joe met his knowing look, able to do it now. They'd been in this together from the beginning; they'd seen it through and come out the other side with all of them in one piece, that was what mattered. Methos's eyes said the same thing.

"You take care of yourself, Joseph," he said, in a tone that meant business.

"Yes, Dad. I promise I'll eat my broccoli."

"We'll see you soon, one way or another." Methos hugged him, hard and fast before anybody could get too maudlin, then let him go and stepped back. "Wolfe," he said. Then, "Amanda," with a little dip of his eyelashes and the faintest hint of a smirk.

"Oh, no, you don't," she said in disgust, and in less than a second was inside his guard, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of his head so she could pull him down and kiss him, most definitely not on the cheek. He didn't fight it, only gave a surprised laugh against her mouth before he let his hands come up around her waist and gave in. They kissed for a good five seconds or so—long enough to mean it, but not so long that Wolfe could take serious umbrage.

Wolfe looked like he was tempted anyway, but he glanced at MacLeod's expression—half startled and half bemused—then at Joe, who couldn't keep the grin off his face. Joe met his look, shaking his head.

"Don't look at me, man."

Amanda broke the kiss with a breathless laugh of appreciation, and Methos let her go. "Satisfied?" he asked, eyes dancing.

"For now," she shot back, and stepped safely out of reach. "But you better not get yourselves in trouble after we're gone. I've got a business to run, you know. I can't be chasing off to bail you out every five minutes."

"Heaven forbid," he said.

Amanda rewarded him with a brilliant smile, then tilted her head, thoughtful. "You know, Methos—" she began.

His mouth turned up at the corners. "I'm not half the arrogant, self-absorbed jerk I was when you met me?"

"Not exactly what I was going to say, but close enough." She patted him once more on the arm and turned to MacLeod. They looked at each other for a moment, then she moved close and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself close.

Joe, next to him, was near enough to get a second-hand whiff of the faint, heady scents of warm wool, leather, and French perfume, close enough to hear her murmur against Mac's cheek, "You, I'm not kissing, or he really will kill me."

She held on for a moment, then stepped back. "Be good," she said, eyes bright. Hand still on MacLeod's arm, she shifted her look to include Methos, and added, "Both of you. Watch out for each other, okay?"

"We will," Mac said, handing her back to Wolfe with a slight touch at her elbow. "You too." He caught Wolfe's eyes when he said it, and Nick gave a short nod, accepting the unspoken charge.

Methos returned to the car under the disapproving eye of airport security while Mac gave Joe's bag to a skycap. From behind the wheel, Methos caught Joe's look, nodded in much the same way Wolfe had. And then it was the three of them standing in front of the glass doors, and Mac getting in the car, and the two of them pulling away from the curb.

 _Soon, Mac,_ Joe Dawson returned the promise, watching until they were out of sight. _I'm holding you to that._

* * *

They spoke little on the way home, the radio playing classical jazz on low as they headed back into the city. Georgetown's main streets were busy on a Saturday night, people out on the sidewalks, music and laughter and varicolored light spilling out of bars and restaurants; Methos opened the windows and let the sounds and lights wash through the car on the cool night air. Idly, he wondered whether his own car was still out in front of Joe's place in New York, and how many assets he'd have to sell off to pay the parking tickets.

He headed for home in no particular hurry, one eye on Mac as he leaned an arm out the window and watched the scenery.

MacLeod didn't seem to notice when they pulled into Methos's driveway, his attention elsewhere, gaze fixed on some inner landscape in a way that pinged Methos's radar. "Mac?" he said, shifting the car into park.

Mac stirred. "I'm here," he said, straightening in his seat and unfastening his seatbelt.

"Sure about that?"

"Just thinking," he said, and pressed the button to roll up his window.

Methos followed suit. "They'll be fine, Mac," he said, in the quiet that fell when the windows were up and the engine was off, just the sound of their breathing in the close quarters of the car.

Mac sat still, head bowed. He looked at his hands, turning them over as if he didn't quite recognize them. "Yeah, I know." A moment passed, not long, and he looked up at Methos with a ghost of a smile. "Shall we?"

Methos unlocked the front door and ushered Mac inside, shutting off the alarm. The lamp across the street streamed in through the three glass panes at the top of the door. Methos didn't bother to turn on a light, only locked the door behind them and reset the alarm before hanging up his coat. He felt Mac's eyes on him, and turned, holding out a hand; Mac shrugged off his coat and handed it over without comment, his sword heavy in the lining. Their fingers didn't touch. The silence deepened. It wasn't awkward, exactly, just odd, for them. Methos could count on one hand the number of times in the last few years they'd spent time alone together without some pressing emergency.

He cleared his throat. "You tired?" It wasn't late, but he knew Mac still wasn't sleeping well.

"A little," Mac admitted.

"Understandable," Methos said, heading into the shadows of the living room. He reached out and turned on a table lamp, its muted glow suddenly warm in the room. "You should rest, if you think you can."

But Mac followed him into the living room, turning on another lamp in the corner, then drifted into the center of the room. "Don't feel much like sleeping, to tell you the truth."

Methos turned at that. "Nightmares, still?" Duncan shrugged a little, looked away. "How about some tea?" Methos offered. "Maybe something stronger?"

"Depends," Duncan said, sitting down on the ottoman, elbows resting on his knees. There was the barest hint of a challenge in his tone.

Methos gave him a look. "Oh, ye of little faith. What do you take me for?" He moved to the liquor cabinet, a hutch on top of the antique desk in the corner, and turned the key. Rummaging, he found what he was looking for and poured two snifters. He turned the stereo on low before bringing the glasses back to the couch and handing one to Duncan.

The other man swirled the aged liquor, breathing deep. His eyebrows lifted, impressed, and he looked at Methos with new respect.

"See if you doubt me again, grasshopper," Methos said, and sat down on the couch opposite. He leaned back and swirled his own glass, letting it breathe. Blues guitar washed over them, low and mellow, and he felt a wave of his own weariness catch up with him, roll through him. Come to think of it, Duncan wasn't the only one running on a serious sleep deficit.

"Amanda's sort of exhausting, isn't she?" Duncan said after a moment, a low chuckle escaping him.

Methos felt a soft, answering laugh bubble up. "Scotsman speaks truth." He closed his eyes, sinking further into the couch, and took a sip of the whisky.

"You two must know each other pretty well."

Methos cracked one eye open. "Was that a statement, or a question?"

Duncan considered that, sipping his own whisky. "Statement, I suppose."

Methos let the eye close. "Good, that means it doesn't require an answer."

They sat in companionable silence, the music and the whisky mellowing them. "Been a long time since we did this, hasn't it?" Duncan asked after a while.

Methos felt the familiar heaviness close down around his heart, that pressure he hadn't missed until it was there again, inescapable. "Yes, it has," he admitted, his voice rougher than it should be. It had been a long time because it was years now since they were this easy with each other, this unburdened by the weight of all the hurts between them, betrayals great and small and some imagined, words spoken and unspoken, hurtful and cutting and all too true. And what did it say about him, that he honestly couldn't say whether he was more worried that Duncan would remember them all, or that he never would?

He swirled his drink again, sipped it. Hadn't he wanted this, once upon a time? Thought about what it would be like to start over, what it would be like if they'd met in another place and time, without things like Kronos and Byron and the Ingrids and Jacob Galatis of the world getting in the way?

"You know, you don't have to do this," Duncan said, and Methos looked up to find the other man watching him, the snifter cradled between his knees. "I remember how to drive a car, how to use a telephone, a computer. There's no reason you have to—"

Methos sat up, too fast. The whisky was potent stuff, and he hadn't eaten much today; he felt it when he moved, a slight vertigo, a warm numbness in his extremities. "Nobody said I had to. It's not about that. Now, will you stop talking nonsense?" The dark eyes widened a little, startled by his vehemence, and Methos caught himself. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all. He sat back again, letting the tension go with effort. "Look, we're better off sticking together, that's all."

"Okay," Duncan said. "I just thought—"

"Well, you thought wrong, okay?" Duncan said nothing for a long moment, and Methos could feel the weight of his gaze. At last Methos let a breath out, and laughed a little at himself. He rubbed one hand over his face, then scrubbed it through his hair and met Duncan's look. "Have I mentioned it's been a long week?"

Duncan relaxed a little at that, a glint of relief surfacing. "Understatement of the century, I'd say."

"Yeah." Methos's eyes fell on the snifter in his hand—definitely a bad idea. He set it down on the coffee table and got up, feeling like he needed to move, to put some distance between them. He hadn't realized how much he relied on Duncan's defenses in this age-old dance between them; without them, with Duncan so open and unguarded and _trusting_ him all the time, he found his own fortifications unequal to the task. "Maybe I'm not such good company tonight."

"Don't have to be," Duncan said, and Methos made the mistake of looking at him. He hadn't been ready for this—hadn't thought about what it would be like, to have Duncan here alone with him, sleeping in his bed, for pity's sake, and open to him, trusting him as never before, relying on him as if that were something expected, something that made sense in the landscape of Methos and MacLeod.

His mouth quirked up, because you had to laugh. It beat the alternative. "Good thing," he said, and Duncan's expression lightened, too.

"Methos—"

"Listen, Mac," Methos interrupted, a quiet desperation making him suddenly heedless of niceties. "Mind if we take a rain check? I'm not fit for human interaction tonight, and I have some work I need to do."

"Sure," Mac said after a moment. "We could all probably use a break from each other after the last few days."

His tone was mild, and Methos believed he might even mean it. He shot Mac a wry look, half gratitude, half apology, and it seemed to be enough. "I meant what I said, though. About us sticking together."

"Yeah, I hear you," Duncan said, and rubbed his eyes, tiredness bleeding through. He got up and retrieved Methos's glass, then nodded toward the hall. "Go on, I know where everything is."

Before he could change his mind, Methos went into his office and turned the computer on, sat down. In the other room, music played. Minutes passed. Methos forced his attention to the document in front of him: a spreadsheet he'd created to track various government agencies and their relationships to one another.

The music eventually shut off, and Methos was aware of footsteps in the hall, aware of the quiet tread on the stairs. He closed his eyes, listening, and called himself ten kinds of fool.

If he seriously meant to make this work, he should have been better prepared for what it would feel like to share intimate quarters with MacLeod, to find himself meeting his friend's eyes with the weight of this week behind him, still heavy inside him, and the relief starting to make it to the surface. They'd slept in the same bed that first night, and Mac hadn't shown the slightest discomfort over it—hadn't said a word, and acted like it was nothing, like it was no more than any friend would do for another.

Maybe it wasn't. But now here they were, and Methos knew it wouldn't take much, would be so easy to persuade him, a tug up the stairs and their clothes discarded, their skin warm against each other in his bed. It wasn't the first time he'd sensed how easy it would be—and this time, he didn't even doubt Mac would forgive him. He'd be grateful enough; he'd understand. Worse, maybe he needed it, too. Maybe he needed something to bring him out of the dark places in his head, something to remind him he was alive.

Then he thought of how Duncan had shuddered under his hands the previous afternoon, how he'd broken violently out of a deep hypnotic trance. How he'd fought nightmare restraints two nights ago, reliving what had been done to him, sweating through his clothes in his desperate panic. How he would look at Methos differently when he remembered.

Another handful of minutes ticked past, one after the other. At last Methos let out the breath he'd been holding and shut the computer down. He rose, ran a hand through his hair. It needed cutting; he could feel it.

He shut off the light and went out into the hall. The living room was dark. He thought of Amanda and Joe, somewhere over the Atlantic. Thought of Amanda saying, _What? Tell me I'm wrong._

 _Fine,_ he'd told her. _You're wrong._ But she hadn't bought it, had she? Any more than the hungry thing inside of him was buying it, now.

 _What are you so afraid of, anyway?_

His bedroom was the first door on the right at the top of the stairs. Moonlight shone in through the small window at the end of the hall, and he could see the door standing open. He moved toward it, not knowing what he intended until he stood in the doorway. Until he saw his bed, neatly made, all trace of Duncan's habitation gone.

He turned and looked down the hall; the door to the library was closed. Duncan must have decided he'd overstepped his welcome, and taken the futon as a peace offering. And could you blame him, after the way Methos had pulled up all the bridges on him downstairs?

Methos laid a hand on the doorjamb, a soft laugh escaping him at the way the reprieve opened up his chest, made it easier to breathe as soon as it became clear Duncan had taken the decision out of his hands for tonight. What had he been thinking? He must be more tired than he thought.

* * *

Things were better in the morning, the tension that had lain between them unnamed and temporarily subverted. Morning became afternoon, became evening, turned into another day, and they fell into a rhythm: Duncan shed the echoes of nightmare in long walks, in meditation, in kata practiced in Methos's small brick-lined garden. Methos spent the better part of a day at the Library of Congress, with little substantive to show for it save more names to add to the growing lists, more tenuous connections between them. He spent too much time at the computer, but let Duncan cook for him, let himself be coaxed out for a run or to play chess, a slow game that stretched over two days, then three. They checked in with Joe. They waited less than patiently to hear from Mulder, and Methos printed out timelines and lists of names, looking for patterns and connections. Methos didn't ask if Duncan remembered any more, willing to give him time up to a point, knowing he still wrestled with his demons in the dark. They lived in the same house, careful to give each other space.

Neither of them spoke again of the unnamed terrors that woke Duncan in the night and made him cry out—that drew deep, tired lines under his eyes.

On the third day, Amanda called to tell them she'd had a phone call from Cory Raines. He'd been in Brazil, he said, then Buenos Aires, and it had taken him a while to get her second-hand messages.

"You sure it was him?" Methos asked, meeting MacLeod's eyes across the living room. It was late afternoon, sunlight slanting in through the windows.

"I'm sure," she said, sounding it. "Typical Cory, couldn't figure out what I was so mad about. I gave him the news about McCormick. He took it pretty hard."

MacLeod got up and crossed the room, stood close, listening to Methos's side of the conversation. "It's Raines," Methos told him. "He contacted Amanda. Sounds like he's still among the living." Mac let out a breath and sat down, looking relieved. Methos returned his attention to the phone. "Did he say anything else? Did you tell him about our one-armed friend?"

"Yeah," Amanda sighed. "And he didn't know any more than we do. I warned him the guy was dangerous, but I can't promise it'll do any good—self-preservation is not exactly high on Cory's list at the best of times, and when I told him about McCormick, he sounded like he was thinking about doing something stupid. Well, more stupid than usual. I told him I knew how he felt, that he should sit tight, that we'd keep him in the loop and tell him as soon as we had something to go on. I think he listened, but it's hard to tell."

Methos glanced at MacLeod. "Not the most encouraging news I've had all day."

"Tell me about it." She sounded tired, Methos thought. "Well, anyway, I figured you'd want to know."

"Thanks. Listen, you want to talk to him?" MacLeod was already holding his hand out for the phone.

Methos left them talking and went into the kitchen, rummaging in the refrigerator for beer. He found two, the second hidden behind three heads of endive and a large brown paper bag that contained, upon investigation, an assortment of fresh Chinese mushrooms. He shook his head, retrieving the bottles and trying not to think about the last time he'd lived with anybody.

He popped the caps off and brought the beers back into the living room, handing one to MacLeod, listening in as Mac made reassuring noises at Amanda before they rang off. The guy was convincing, you had to give him that.

Methos sat down and took a swig of his beer. He nudged aside a small pile of manila folders on the coffee table, making room to rest his feet. "Nice to have some good news for a change."

"I'll take what we can get," Mac agreed. "I'm glad for Amanda. Sounded like she was worried about him."

"Yeah, well. She always was a sucker for a pretty face."

Methos delivered it deadpan, and was rewarded—Mac looked like he wasn't sure whether to laugh, look scandalized, or both. "I'll have to take your word for it," he managed at last, and Methos let a little of his own grin escape.

Methos rubbed his neck with one hand and looked around the living room at the files, the notepads and pens that had found their way out of his office over the last few days. It was starting to become all too clear how Mulder could have spent the better part of his mortal lifetime trying to unravel the threads of conspiracy and interconnected government agencies that lay behind more than sixty years of abductions and experiments. Every bit of information, every name he uncovered, seemed to lead to two more, and though they made patterns and connections, none of those names led to the center, to any kind of single purpose he could pin down. "Bora Bora is starting to look better all the time."

Mac set his beer down and leaned forward. "Methos, I want to help."

Methos shrugged. "You are helping. You're getting your strength back. That's what you need to stay focused on at the moment."

"Why? I'm fine." He tried a smile, eyebrows arching. "Immortal, remember?"

Methos looked at him. "Right. Of course." He paused a beat. "So, those nightmares of yours a thing of the past, then? Not troubling you in the least?"

A scowl flickered across Mac's face, but he set his shoulders in that stubborn way of his. "I didn't say that. But I can handle it." He gestured at the files, the papers. "Two pairs of eyes have to be better than one, right? And maybe it'll—" He broke off.

"Maybe it'll what?"

"Maybe it'll help me remember."

Methos sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Mac, I told you. You'll remember when you're ready. And I don't think looking at this stuff is going to do you any favors. Trust me on this." Even the more sketchily detailed reports, the ones without the photographs, were enough to give a man pause. Sorting through them day after day hadn't exactly been helping his own peace of mind, and he wasn't the one who'd lived through it. He sat back, meeting Mac's gaze. "Besides, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure it's gonna add up to a whole hell of a lot. Mulder was right. This has been going on for so long, and goes so deep, we could spend the next ten years graphing and charting a record of how far back these experiments go, and we still might not have the whole picture. Goes to show, you can't be paranoid enough."

Mac wrestled with that, plainly not liking what he was hearing. "So, where do we go from here?"

"Same way we've been going. We keep gathering information, we watch our backs, and we get on with our lives." Which reminded him, he'd told his department head he'd be in tomorrow afternoon to discuss his sudden disappearance, numerous complaints from his students, and the small matter of his grades. What a fun conversation that was likely to be. Methos shook his head at the other man's troubled expression. "Look, I know it's not what you want to hear, but we have to take it one day at a time, okay?"

Mac grimaced. "Easy for you to say. I don't even know my own telephone number—or if I have one."

"Look on the bright side, at least you work for yourself."

Mac looked up at that, concern replacing the glum self-pity he'd allowed to creep in. "The university giving you a hard time?"

Methos shrugged, and sat up. "Nothing I can't handle. Listen, what do you say we take a break tonight, go get some dinner somewhere? I happen to know an organic pan-Asian place down on M Street—walking distance, if you're so inclined." He found a small smile. "I don't know about you, but I could stand to see something besides the insides of these walls."

Duncan brightened at that, and admitted it sounded like a good idea.

* * *

Afterwards, bellies full and easy in each other's company, both feeling better about life than they had in far longer than either would have admitted, they walked home along streets peppered with bars and pubs and busy with early evening foot traffic.

"I don't think I've been here in at least seventy years," Duncan said, trying to remember the last time. He glanced at his companion, feeling a little odd about asking, telling himself he had to start somewhere. "How long have you lived here?" Methos hadn't mentioned it, but he had the feeling they hadn't seen much of each other these last few years.

Methos kept pace with him, hands in his pockets. "Just since January."

"Have you lived here before?"

Methos didn't look up. "Nope." He smiled a little, that sphinx-smile that made Duncan feel out of his depth every time. "First time for everything, right?"

Duncan fell quiet, watching the pavement fall away beneath their feet. They'd turned up the hill, Methos matching his stride without effort. Like they'd done this before, Duncan thought. Many times, probably. He let the rhythm of their steps fall into that quiet, blank place inside him, listening for an echo. Five thousand years, he thought out of nowhere, and it hit him with a deep, quiet jolt. The knowledge had come to him on its own that first day, the memory of a story heard long ago, a legend told to him by his teacher like the stories of old—dragons and knights and ancient Immortals, as old as mankind's written memory. Only, he knew this legend, could walk with him, have dinner with him. And still not know him at all, if he ever had.

"It's funny," he said, trying to find words to express the confusion he felt. "I feel like I've known you all my life, like you know everything about me, and yet I can't remember why I feel that way."

Beside him, Methos slowed his pace. He said nothing for a long moment, and when Duncan stole a glance at his profile, it seemed closed, impenetrable, his mercurial eyes shuttered. "I wouldn't say I know everything about you," he said at last. "We weren't always—" He broke off and made a small sound, as if there were something in his throat. "Things haven't always been easy between us."

Duncan felt a tightness of his own somewhere, an unnamed pressure, subtle but inescapable. "But I came to you. In Paris, when I got shot at the airport. Joe told me. So I must have known I could trust you."

Methos's hand came up, and he rubbed at the back of his neck. He flashed Duncan a tight smile. "What can I say? I've always been good in a crisis."

"Yes, I get that idea."

They walked on in silence for a little while. At last, Duncan stopped; a step further on, Methos did likewise. He turned back, meeting Duncan's look with reluctance in every line of his body. "It is what it is, Mac. We've always trusted each other on the big things. It's the rest of it where we usually ran into trouble."

 _So why do I remember thinking of you, when I was alone in that place?_ Duncan wanted to ask, the question burning steadily at the center of his chest, as it had been for days. _Why was it your name I held onto when I lost everything else?_

But Methos was holding himself in, and Duncan could see how uncomfortable the conversation was making him. Duncan relented, and found a smile somewhere, "It's okay. I don't expect you to have all the answers. It's just—I'm trying to understand."

After a moment, Methos relaxed a fraction, a mobile, fluid expression touching his face, changing too fast to read. "Of course you are." His eyes dropped, shifted away, and he turned and started walking again. Duncan fell into step with him without thinking, their shoulders brushing. "I wish I had an easy answer for you, believe me. I've thought about forcing it. With hypnosis, if necessary—if you wanted to try again." He glanced at Duncan sidelong. "Though I'm not sure it's the best idea right now."

"Why not?"

Methos let out a breath, and seemed to consider his words carefully. "Has it occurred to you that there might be very good reasons your subconscious doesn't want you to remember the last few years?"

They'd reached the corner of Methos's street; Duncan checked for cars, then angled across to the sidewalk. "Yeah," he said on the other side, his voice flat. "It's occurred to me. But that's not a good enough reason—"

"No, it's not," Methos cut in. "But you've been through a hell of an ordeal, and you're still having trouble sleeping for more than an hour or two a night. It doesn't seem like the brightest idea in the world to add to that just now, you know what I'm saying?"

The smallest sliver of suspicion slipped into Duncan's thoughts then, about why Methos might be so willing to accept the status quo between them—why he might be less than eager for Duncan to remember their shared history.

He barely had time to register it; it was at that moment that Methos's new cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and hit the button. "Pierson." After a moment, he looked up. "It's Mulder. He wants to know if I can meet him in thirty minutes."

"I'm going with you," Duncan said, making it clear it wasn't optional.


	21. Chapter 21

**  
_Tuesday, 10:38 p.m._   
**

The night wind strewed fallen cherry blossoms across the sidewalk, the sweet, fecund scent enveloping the two Immortals as they approached the memorial. Luminous under its floodlights, the dome cast its pale image in reverse across the glassy expanse of the tidal basin while a lone jogger ran past on the path below, his reflectors flickering through the trees.

Methos strode up the long, marble steps, senses alert, MacLeod a half-pace behind. The great bronze of Jefferson, preoccupied with the pressing questions of his own time, took no notice of them.

Mulder turned away from his study of the statue, eyes alight with what might have been admiration, or amusement at some private joke. "You know I have to ask," he said, and Methos caught himself thinking that the guy should have been Immortal. He'd already mastered the most important survival trait: he was easily amused.

A petite, red-headed woman flanked Mulder, her perusal cool, professional, giving nothing away. "My partner, Agent Scully," said Mulder. She didn't proffer her hand, so Methos just nodded.

"Adam Pierson," he offered. She was rather startlingly beautiful, but it seemed almost an afterthought to the aura of competence and fierce intelligence she carried off with matter-of-fact grace. "And, no," he said to Mulder. "Never met him."

"Killjoy," Mulder said with a wistful glance at Jefferson's imposing figure.

The four of them withdrew into the shadows of the arcade. Scully turned her regard on MacLeod, and something beyond professional interest flickered in her face for a moment. Methos remembered Mulder saying, _They took my partner from me, too, and I couldn't stop them._

"Duncan MacLeod," Mac said, with a little incline of his head. The wind had ruffled his hair so the pale patches of skin barely showed. "I'm indebted to you both. You've taken risks for me, and I won't forget it."

Mulder shrugged. "Chalk one up for the good guys. Your friend seemed to think you were worth it." His glance fell on Methos, and Methos felt his face warm. "Anyway, I'm glad it worked. Even better than I would have guessed. I have to say, I'm impressed."

It was Methos's turn to shrug. "You know what they say—it's not what you know, it's who."

Mulder exchanged a wry look with his partner. "Ain't that the truth."

"I was beginning to wonder if we'd hear from you," Methos said. "What's up that you couldn't tell us over the phone?"

"It's not so much couldn't, as I don't like to make a habit of it."

"So you are being watched."

"Usually," Mulder said, sounding unconcerned. "You sort of get used to it."

"Says you," Scully said, the first time she'd spoken.

Methos shared the feeling. "We need to know what exactly we're up against. What can you tell us?"

Mulder answered without hesitation. "Welcome to a war that's been going on for at least the last five decades. Long story doesn't begin to cover it, but I'll give you the short version. I think you already know we're talking about men of power, men within the government who operate with almost complete impunity. Men who now know you exist, and who would stop at almost nothing to possess the secret of what makes you tick. They have every tool of science at their disposal, so it's likely that, sooner or later, they'll succeed."

"Succeed?" asked Duncan.

"In cloning you," Mulder said bluntly, to Methos's dismay. He hadn't discussed the implications of Krycek's resemblance to Raines with Duncan in any detail. Mulder glanced between them, registering their reactions. "He didn't tell you."

"No," Duncan said after a moment. "He didn't." Methos didn't dare look at him, but his stomach turned unpleasantly, all his reasons for not bringing it up seeming suddenly inadequate. He should have anticipated the subject would come up. Now it would be another source of tension between them.

"They won't stop there," Mulder went on. "If they can, they'll use what they've taken from you to develop a way to detect differences in your physiology. To find others like you. They'll try to use what they've learned to augment ordinary humans, if they can. Implants, gene manipulation, whatever it takes. The good news is, it could take them a while. They took a serious hit a few months ago, and I don't think they're anywhere near recovering from those losses."

"How long?" Methos asked, struggling to come to terms with what Mulder was telling them. He wasn't sure which was worse: the idea of being identified and tagged as an Immortal, or the idea that Immortality might become a commodity to be traded at the highest levels of power, a weapon or tool to be wielded at will. "Are we talking months, or years?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, I'm afraid," Mulder answered.

Duncan rubbed a hand against his mouth, pacing a little. "And you think they can pull this off?"

Mulder looked at his partner, a silent exchange impossible to read. "We don't know enough about the science," Scully said at last. "Based on past experience, I can tell you they have some of the best genetic scientists in the world on their payroll, and an almost limitless budget."

Duncan stopped pacing, turning his attention to Mulder. "You called it a war. What war? Who do these people believe they're fighting?"

Mulder gave him an approving look. "I can see why your friends think so highly of you, Mr. MacLeod. At the very least, you know to ask the right questions." He glanced at Scully again, and they shared another eloquent, unreadable look. For the first time, the hint of a smile lightened her grave manner. She shook her head slightly, and paced away, arms folded against her middle.

A similar smile played about Mulder's lips, but all hint of joking fell away when he looked at Methos. "I don't suppose either of you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?"

Duncan gave a short, surprised laugh, eyebrows lifting as if he hadn't heard right. "Excuse me?"

"Why do people always look at me like that when I ask that question?" Mulder murmured to himself.

Methos raised an eyebrow of his own. "Besides the obvious?"

That brought a chuckle from Scully. She shook her head, and shot a look Methos read as _told you so_ at her partner.

"Scully, help me out, here."

"What makes you think they'll like it any better coming from me?"

"Come on, everything sounds better coming from you."

Her face said she was going to get him for this later, but she sighed, and turned back to face Methos, her gaze direct. "What my partner is trying to say is that we have seen things that can't be explained by conventional science." She looked at Duncan, radiating quiet conviction. "Things that are directly connected to the men who abducted you, Mr. MacLeod. The experiments you've read about, the things that were done to you, and to me—these things were done for a reason. For a purpose we've only begun to understand. But I can tell you that I don't consider my partner's question a joke."

"Done to you," Duncan repeated, his voice rough, the understanding hitting him hard.

She nodded, though Methos saw that her acceptance had been hard-won. He was reminded painfully of Alexa, of that quiet steel in her that had first caught him, drawn him inexorably.

Scully went on. "I'm a scientist. I've lived my whole life by what's rational, what I can see and verify by scientific means. I can't change what you believe, but I would hope that you'd keep an open mind."

Despite the protests of his inner skeptic, every instinct Methos possessed told him this woman was telling the truth, told him she was absolutely serious—and one of the sanest people he'd ever met. A breeze stirred off the water, carrying with it the wet scent of silt and decay. He found himself seeking Duncan's gaze, looking for what, he wasn't sure. Maybe a reality check.

But Duncan's eyes were distant, unmistakable tension radiating from him; he seemed lost in a memory, his body rigid in the grip of it, a look Methos recognized. "Mac?" he said involuntarily.

With effort, Duncan dragged himself back to the present, his eyes clearing. He started to pace again, an edgy hesitance to his movements Methos didn't like. "I've been having this dream," he said, his voice rough-edged. "Black oil, like smoke. It blinds me, and I can feel it— I can feel it under my skin. Moving, under my skin. I thought— I thought it was a nightmare."

"I know the feeling," Mulder said grimly. "But it's real, all right. It's a virus, extraterrestrial in origin. They've tested it on hundreds, maybe thousands of people. Almost none of them have lived to tell about it."

Methos moved closer to Duncan, feeling his stress. "What exactly are you asking us to believe? That these people are building an army to fight—who, exactly?" Methos couldn't bring himself to say it.

Scully's gaze was steady, unflinching. "Nothing happens in contradiction to nature, only in contradiction to what we know of it. I could say the same of you two, Mr. Pierson."

"Look," Mulder cut in. "I realize this sounds like science fiction, but I'm not asking you to take our word for it." He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a CD. "We came here to give you this."

Methos took the disk. It was unmarked. "What is it?"

"My life's work." Mulder said it lightly, but a thread of old pain twisted beneath the surface. "What's left of it, anyway. Our files were destroyed a few months ago—a fire. We've been doing our best to restore what we can. Everything we know about the men you've been dealing with, every piece of surviving evidence we've uncovered about their agenda, and the reasons behind it. It's all there."

A chill touched the back of Methos's neck, and it was more than the wind. Unable to deny the feeling of foreboding that gripped him, he met Duncan's gaze for an instant, seeing the reflection of his own unease. "And in return?"

To his surprise, Mulder laughed. "See, Scully? I told you, this guy's more paranoid than I am." To Methos, he said, "There's no catch. I think you'll understand once you've seen what's on that disk."

"And then what?" Duncan asked.

That odd light surfaced Mulder's eyes again, and Methos realized with sudden insight that it was hope, after what must have been a long drought. "Well, that's up to you, isn't it?"

 _No catch, my ass,_ Methos thought. But he owed this man Duncan's life, and that, he would not soon forget. "Anything else we should know about?" he said at last.

"No, I think that pretty much covers it. Scully?" She shook her head.

Methos glanced at Duncan, seeing that he was more than ready. "Then I guess we'll be in touch."

As they parted ways, Methos slipped the CD into his pocket, imagining he could feel the weight of it.

* * *

The two men walked back toward the car, each keeping counsel with his own thoughts. Duncan could taste the oily bitterness of memory at the back of his throat, and he wished fervently that they'd brought something to drink. He felt shakier than he'd like to admit. Talking about his abduction, seeing the shared knowledge in the woman's eyes, her compassion, had brought his fractured memories too close to the surface, and he didn't begin to know what to make of the implications the two agents had made. He wished he could believe Mulder was off his head.

"They seem crazy to you?" Methos said at last, as if he'd read the thought.

Duncan grimaced. "No, and that's what worries me."

"Exactly."

"But then," Duncan said wryly, "I'm probably not the best judge at the moment."

He felt more than saw Methos's sidelong glance. "You all right?" Methos said after a moment.

Duncan swallowed, hoping it wasn't noticeable. "Fine." It was mostly true, as long as he didn't think too much.

He felt Methos's eyes on him, not buying it. For some reason, it rubbed him the wrong way, a burr under the skin. He was tired of the confusing signals he kept getting from Methos, one minute concerned and the next shutting him out, keeping the truth from him, some unnamed tension between them that wasn't of Duncan's making. He was tired of feeling helpless, like he couldn't trust his own instincts, his own memories. He was tired in general.

 _He didn't tell you_ echoed inside him, and he felt it bitterly. He'd known Methos was keeping things from him, but somehow he hadn't let himself believe that would include something so vital.

They'd reached the car. Methos unlocked it and opened the driver's side door. Duncan opened his own, with a little more force than necessary.

"Mac?"

He didn't really want to talk about it. "I said, I'm fine." With a last glance across the dark water, he got in the car.

* * *

The drive home passed in silence, a sudden gulf between them Methos didn't know how to cross. Duncan seemed a thousand miles away, deeply engrossed in his own thoughts—grim ones, by the looks of things. Methos wasn't crazy about it, and he spent a good part of the drive trying to think of ways to breach that silence, draw him out of whatever dark places he'd gone. _Talk to me._ But every time the words were on the tip of his tongue, something stopped him. Whether it was instinct, or something less noble, he couldn't have said, but Duncan seemed suddenly brittle in a way he hadn't been before, like he was holding himself together mainly by will, and the last thing Methos wanted was to push him before he was ready.

Just get him home, Methos thought. Get him home where they could talk, and if Duncan was going to break finally, or let Methos have it for keeping secrets from him, he could do it somewhere safe and familiar, where they could contain the fallout.

But once back at the house, Duncan hung up his coat and disappeared down the hall, not bothering to turn a light on; he went into the kitchen and Methos could hear a cabinet open, then the water running. Methos stood in the foyer for a moment, uncertain whether he should follow. He put a hand in his pocket and ran his fingers over the plastic case that held the CD Mulder had given him. After a moment, he drew it out and hung up his own coat, turning the disk over in his hand

Duncan didn't appear from the kitchen. Conflicting impulses tangled in Methos, too many to name.

They couldn't go on much longer the way they had been, he knew that much. Duncan was near the end of his rope—Methos had seen it tonight, when he'd talked about his memories of the abduction for the first time in days. He needed to let himself remember, to work through what had been done to him, and the pressure of that against whatever psychological sabotage he'd wrought on himself was growing worse, not better, as the days passed. Duncan had survived worse than this by meeting darkness head on, by not backing down from it, and it went against his very nature to live in a state of uncertainty and denial.

Methos remembered how agitated Duncan had been over Cochrane's amnesia, how doggedly fixated he'd been on the idea that Cochrane had to face the truth. Duncan lived his life by facing things, not backing down from them, not running or hiding from reality because it was painful or hard to accept.

Methos knew all that, but he also knew Duncan had been pushed to his limits this time. Despite the invasive violations wrought on him by his captors, he'd let Methos and his friends see him vulnerable, helpless, had trusted himself into Methos's hands and let him muck around with his head, let him make the decisions for both of them. He'd let Methos see him sick and afraid, and even after what had been done to him, he hadn't flinched from Methos's touch. The night they'd spent sleeping in the same bed seemed like a dream now, but it had been real enough.

It had troubled Methos, that passive acceptance, more than he'd admitted. Tonight was the first time Duncan had drawn back at all, and maybe he needed it. Maybe their encounter with the two agents had brought the memories of what had been done to him closer to the surface, and if that was true, probably the last thing he needed was Methos pushing at him.

Duncan had worked through Richie Ryan's death on his own. He'd worked through the Horsemen on his own, too. Methos knew him well enough to know that was one thing they had in common.

 _So stop standing around in the hall like an idiot, and give him some room,_ he told himself, fighting the instinct to go to him anyway. _He'll come to you when he's ready._ Methos did his best to make himself believe it.

He listened a moment more, hearing nothing, then finally went into his office. Leaving the door ajar, he turned on the desk lamp, propped the disk against his monitor and sat down, turning the computer on. He waited, closing his eyes and rubbing them a little while the computer started up. This whole week seemed like a bad dream, and tonight was the capper. The idea of a tiny island somewhere, no phones, no electricity, and no record of any sailing plan definitely had its appeal.

The tired laugh that sparked didn't quite make it past his throat. He'd give the two of them exactly six hours on that island before one of them killed the other. They'd have to make sure there were no swords on the boat—preferably, nothing sharp of any kind. And if Amanda was coming, they were definitely going to need a healthy supply of electrical tape.

His computer had finished booting. He checked his email, hoping for word from Joe, and wasn't disappointed; the news was a bit of a downer, but nothing he hadn't expected. Joe had sold Le Blues Bar, and was making good progress with the Watchers's other Paris assets, quietly cashing out the substantial portfolio of properties they'd acquired over the years. Methos hadn't been kidding when he'd assured Amanda that Joe could handle the Watchers, but he was impressed nonetheless. Things were moving fast. He shot a brief note back to Joe, promising to take him for a drink in every decent blues bar in Chicago as soon as they could manage it.

Message sent, his eyes fell on the disk. He reached out and toyed with it, watching the play of light in its unmarked, mirrored surface.

It was late, and he was tired. He needed to check on Duncan, and he needed to go to bed. Whatever Mulder wanted him to know, it could wait one more day.

He knew, as soon as he stepped out into the hall, that the house was too quiet. He should have known sooner. How long? he thought, his senses suddenly on edge, reaching out, finding no sense of another Immortal, no sound or presence.

Duncan's coat hung by the door, right where he'd left it; a quick check found the katana still in its hidden sheath. Methos strode down the hall, into the kitchen.

The back door was slightly open. Not enough that the draft had alerted him, but enough that there'd been no sound of it closing. Anger kindled in Methos at that, hotter and sharper than the apprehension that tied his stomach in knots, and he didn't know which to feel. The garden was deserted. He doubled back and started up the stairs, but it was little more than confirmation. By the time he reached the landing, he was certain: Duncan was nowhere in the house.

* * *

Duncan didn't really mean to go beyond the back gate, but the suffocating claustrophobia didn't lessen when he bolted outside, only pressed closer, one breath short of outright panic. It wasn't in the house; it was inside him, flickering in stark nightmare images, the remembered feeling of being held down, needles cold against his scalp, a blackness like smoke closing over his vision and changing to the color of blood, choking him. His sword flashing, sliding with appalling ease through skin and blood and bone. The smell of dead leaves, a hole deep in the earth, and things crawling on him—

Duncan fled, not knowing where he was or where he was going for long minutes, knowing only that he had to get out, get away.

When the worst of the panic receded, he looked up to find himself standing in front of the main entrance of the university, his breathing ragged, as though he'd been running. His heart was pounding hard enough for him to feel it heavy against his breastbone. It was a burst of distant laughter from the lawn inside that brought him back to himself, a knot of students too far away to notice him: a lone man in tan jeans and a gray pullover, nondescript in the shadow of the gate house.

The campus was a handful of blocks from Methos's house. How much time had he lost? Perhaps only a few minutes, he thought, making himself draw a steadying breath. He found it almost as disturbing to lose those few minutes as it had been to live with the wider gaps in his memory. He wasn't a man prone to panic, and if he'd ever suffered anxiety attacks before, he couldn't remember them.

He started back, controlling his breathing as he walked, letting his heart rate return to normal. Until tonight, the flashes of memory had come only in nightmare; now his waking mind betrayed him, confusing memory and reality. Agent Scully's pale eyes had seen into him, seen what had been done to him because it had been done to her—and something in the way she'd looked at him had tipped the fragile balance within, the careful hold he'd been keeping on the darkness inside him.

It felt deep and impenetrable now, terrifying. He hadn't realized. It stretched away beneath him, vast and treacherous. This was what Methos had been talking about, he thought, trying to keep a steady grip on the present. This was what he'd meant, when he'd warned Duncan not to force it. How well did Methos know him, anyway? And why had Duncan been so willing to accept his explanation, that he'd done this to himself out of some deep-seated need to protect his friends? Who was he really protecting?

Anger stirred deep within him, an impatience directed at himself. This was not who he was. He didn't run from the truth, no matter how difficult it was to accept. He couldn't live that way. What he did, he lived with, because that was the only way he knew.

He felt Methos's buzz before he saw him, a deep tolling within him that woke memories of its own, a resonance he felt in his bones. It drew him, called him with inexorable power down the moonlit, tree-lined sidewalk; he turned a corner, realizing as he did that it was Methos's street. Headlights bore down on him, a familiar compact sedan materializing out of the darkness.

The car slowed, stopped beside him. Its passenger door opened. Methos let go of the handle and straightened up behind the wheel, his expression fierce with controlled fury. "Get in," he said flatly.

It was only then that it occurred to Duncan what Methos would have made of his precipitous flight. "Methos—"

"Shut up and get in."

Duncan obeyed. Methos turned the car around, and Duncan searched for words to explain. "I'm sorry. I should have thought before I left." He'd been in no condition to think clearly about what he was doing, but he didn't want to admit that—especially not when Methos already spent too much time trying to protect him.

Methos's jaw tightened, but he said nothing for a long moment. At last he shook his head once, his frustration plain. "Well, at least it's nice to know some things never change."

In spite of himself, Duncan's pulse sped up, defensive irritation sparking in his belly. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

They'd pulled into Methos's driveway; Methos put the car in park, and gripped the steering wheel with both hands as if trying to keep himself from grabbing Duncan and shaking him.

"Methos—" Duncan felt the other man's anger like heat on a burn, like salt in wounds Duncan couldn't even name. Without warning, he was remembering those hands grabbing hold of him, shoving him back, Methos's face twisting in a snarl, telling him _no! It's not enough!_ Remembering a grief like lead in his stomach, a fist clenched around his heart, so hard he'd thought it would never let go.

 _We're through._

Duncan swallowed hard. All the confusion of the past few hours—the last three days—welled up, impossible to contain. "Enough," he said. "Tell me the truth. Why are you doing this?"

The other man shot him a disbelieving look. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Are we even friends any more? When was the last time we spoke?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" But Methos had gone pale, and there was something in his eyes that said Duncan had hit the mark, or close enough. The heaviness in Duncan's stomach sank deeper.

"Look." He made himself stop, get a grip on the sudden sea of emotion he could feel stretching away beneath him. "I'm grateful. And I owe you, more than I can say. I know that. But you have to stop lying to me. I need to know the truth."

"The truth," Methos repeated. Something shone in his eyes, something caught halfway between fury and bitter laughter, and he bit back whatever he was going to say next, just looked at Duncan as if he'd made an appalling, tasteless joke at the worst possible moment. _Things haven't always been easy between us,_ he'd said. Duncan had the sinking feeling this was exactly what he'd meant.

Methos shook his head and shut the car off, climbing out. He strode toward the house; Duncan got out and followed, wishing someone had remembered to give him the map and the ground rules for this. Too many emotions crowded in on him, and he couldn't be sure which were really part of the here and now. The rigid line of Methos's shoulders, the sharp ferocity in his expression, awakened a host of feelings and responses that had little to do with the bigger questions Duncan had been grappling with, and everything to do with his sudden need to understand why Methos roused such strong, conflicting reactions in him. The memory of how he'd held on to Methos's name as a touchstone against the pain pressed close and powerful within him, demanding explanation. If he could understand it, if he could remember why he felt these things, he'd have something to hold onto now, something solid.

The other man didn't pause, only yanked the front door open and went inside. Duncan followed. Methos strode into the living room and stopped there, breathing hard. He didn't turn, and Duncan couldn't tell if it was anger in the tense lines of his body, or some other source of strain. The sudden enormity of everything this man had risked, everything he'd done to keep Duncan and all of them in one piece against staggering odds, hit Duncan hard. By what right did Duncan make demands of him? Hadn't he done enough, risked enough? And Duncan thanked him by vanishing into the night without a word, by accusing him of lying. "This is stupid," he said without thinking. "You've done enough. I'll go. In the morning, I'll figure something out."

Methos laughed, a short, sharp sound that sounded more like a curse. "Right. Of course." He turned, then, some inner pressure escaping his tightly-held control as if he'd kept it inside too long. "You are unbelievable, you know that? "

Despite himself, Duncan's own ire rose. "Why? Because I'm not willing to sit around and let you risk your life for me?"

"Newsflash, MacLeod. You are not in any shape to be on your own. If another Immortal happened along, you'd be easy pickings, never mind who else might be out there gunning for us. Your reaction times are way down. You've been drugged and interrogated and God knows what else, and you've barely slept in over a week. Are you even aware that you left here weaponless tonight?"

Duncan blinked. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Don't you get it?" Methos snapped in exasperation. "You need help. You need to let your friends help you now and then. It's become this—this _thing_ with you. It started with O'Rourke, but it's only gotten worse." He paced away, agitated. "Why do you think this happened in the first place? If you hadn't had to be such a bloody hero that day at the airport, if you'd called one of us from New York, trusted us— but what are the chances of that happening? The great Duncan MacLeod, doesn't need help from anybody, because he'd much rather go down a martyr than let somebody else stick their neck out."

He wasn't merely angry, Duncan realized, his stomach knotting—he was furious. Duncan himself was running out of reserves, and Methos's accusations stung.

"Me?" he managed. "What about you? You think I don't know what kind of chances you took to get me back? I may be playing with half a deck, but I can still add two and two as well as the next guy. So it's okay for you, but not for me?"

Methos faced him, his careful self-control nowhere in evidence. "The difference is, I wasn't taking that risk alone. You knew what you were up against, and you walked right into it. Didn't even leave us a suicide note." His voice cracked, but he didn't stop. "You're so afraid of risking anyone but yourself, you're a danger to all of us, and you can't even see it. You think you're the only one who's lost people? You think you get to decide for all of us what risks are worth taking? What would have happened if we hadn't come after you? Answer me that. How long do you think you could have held out before they found a way to get to you? How many more Immortals and Watchers would be dead within the year, or worse? How many of your friends?"

He'd run headlong through the tirade, and caught himself at last on a deep breath, eyes raw with emotion and the lines of his face strung taut with the sudden, bleak awareness of how much he'd said, how far he'd gone.

Duncan felt as though he'd been gutted, and it must have shown on his face; Methos stared at him for one awful moment before he suddenly closed up tight and turned away, so abruptly that Duncan thought he might have hit a wall if there'd been one close enough. Methos swore, low and fierce. A moment later, he was moving.

Duncan stood stock still in the middle of the living room for long seconds, reeling from the assault, from what he'd seen in Methos's face. He remembered without warning the way Methos had held onto him in the kitchen that first night, the wet heat of his face against Duncan's neck. Remembered the solid weight of Methos at his back, guarding his sleep. Remembered Methos's steadiness when he'd held onto Duncan's hand, helped him climb out of a spring deep under the ground. _Remembered—_

His thoughts spun, battered at him in confused chaos, but he moved before he was aware of it, blind instinct, nothing more.

Methos had fled the house in unconscious echo of Duncan's earlier flight, out the back door and into the garden. He stood in the shadow of the dogwood with his arms wrapped around himself, his head tilted back, eyes shut. The image overlaid a hundred small moments suddenly vivid and painfully present in Duncan's memory: a fog-shrouded morning by a gravesite in Normandy, Methos huddled against the cold; a churchyard in Bordeaux; a starless night under a bridge by the Seine. Duncan remembered. He'd lost Tessa and he'd killed friends and he'd fought the darkness in his own soul. He'd killed Richie. Blood was on his hands. All of that was whole and real and devastating within him, but it was the defensive, rigid line of Methos's body that hurt him like a blow to the heart.

 _Methos never believed it, you know. He's the one who kept us going. Kept insisting you were out there somewhere._

With eyes newly opened, Duncan saw their tangled history with sudden clarity, all the times he'd wished Methos could meet him on equal footing, be the trusted friend he so badly needed. All the times that unacknowledged longing had blinded him to what was right in front of him. In that white room, he'd known. In pain, afraid, his defenses stripped away, he'd understood, and held on to that certainty when everything else was lost. And Methos had proved it again, in spades.

Duncan came down the steps and closed the distance between them, his heart beating too fast. All the things they'd been to each other, all the feelings he'd ever had for this man pressed in on him. "Methos."

"Don't," Methos warned, fierce, holding himself in. "Let it go, MacLeod." He made a soft, bitter sound that might have been a laugh. "It's not like I shouldn't be used to it by now."

The urge to say _I'm sorry_ was almost overwhelming. But it would have been a half-truth, and Duncan didn't think he could take any more of those games between them. He couldn't promise it wouldn't happen again, and they both knew it. "I'll try, Methos," he said, raw honesty all he could offer. "I meant what I said—I won't lose anyone else. Not because of me, not if I can help it. But you're right, and I will try."

Methos's breath hitched then, a barely audible catch, and he opened his eyes. Understanding dawned, sudden relief flickering in his expression despite everything. "Mac?" he asked, voice wondering and afraid.

Duncan gave a small, damp chuckle. It sounded as unsteady as he felt. "Yeah. Miss me?"

Methos let out a breath that was no steadier, and the tension ran out of him so fast he looked like he might need to sit down. "You son of a bitch, you have no idea."

As clearly as if Methos had shouted it, Duncan read the impulse he'd denied; without thought Duncan reached out, gripped Methos's arm. "Want to bet?" he said, his voice rough.

And in the end, it was Methos who crossed the last little distance, who gave in to the steady pressure of Duncan's grip and let their bodies align like it was easy, let his hands knot against Duncan's shoulder blades, turned his face into the hollow of Duncan's throat. Duncan felt Methos's breath against his skin, felt the strength that met his like it was meant to and Methos's chin digging uncomfortably into his shoulder.

"You have _no_ idea," Methos said again, muffled against his neck, fervent and deep with too much feeling. Duncan held on fiercely, unwilling to argue.

* * *

Methos couldn't have said what he thought, what he expected. He wasn't thinking that far ahead, and such thought as he could manage hadn't got much past shaky, mind-numbing relief. He went with Duncan up the stairs, and it took most of his will to keep putting one foot in front of the other without stumbling. When Duncan came into the bedroom with him, started undressing him, all he could feel at first was a wave of profound gratitude.

Then Duncan's hands were on his skin, warm and painfully real, and Methos shuddered hard with awareness, with understanding. He turned, helpless, into that touch, his hands coming up to brace himself against broad shoulders. "Mac—"

"Is this okay?" Duncan said huskily below his ear, lips brushing skin. "Methos?"

"God." Methos closed his eyes. He felt Duncan's body close against his. "If you change your mind on me, I swear I will kill you."

"I won't," Duncan said, his fingers careful against Methos's throat. His thumbs pressed gently at Methos's jaw, and he tilted Methos's head up, kissed him, a soft pressure of lips and the barest touch of his tongue.

Methos made a sound, faint and unguarded; his hands slid up into Duncan's hair, gripping hard and holding him still so he could have more of him, so he could lick his tongue and press their bodies together. He was half-naked and Duncan still wore his pullover, and the heady, warm feel of him under it made Methos's nipples peak, arousal flooding over him in a sudden rush.

He broke away from Duncan's mouth, shivering with it, afraid. "Tell me you remember," he demanded, trembling with the effort of holding himself still.

Duncan bent his head close, one broad hand slipping down to warm the bare skin of Methos's back. "I remember."

"How much?"

"Everything." His lips found the pulse at Methos's throat, pressing warmth there, too. "Enough. I know you." Methos closed his eyes again, hearing the truth of it.

They undressed each other, steadying one another in the dark. When they were naked, Duncan held him close, his arousal a revelation against Methos's stomach, nudging against Methos's own.

When Methos couldn't stand any more, they lay down together. They kissed with slow, painful intensity, rubbed against one another, until Methos made a faint pleading sound and Duncan took them both in one big hand. He started to stroke with rough, steady friction. Their legs entwined and it was all Methos could do to hold onto him, to bury his face in Duncan's neck, all he could do to hold himself together when Duncan's breath quickened and he gave a stifled moan, breathed Methos's name. The merciless assault went on for what felt like an eternity before Duncan squeezed harder, his finger sliding slick between them, and choked softly as he came in a sweet, pulsing rush that made Methos shudder and thrust against him in helpless need.

Duncan's eyes opened, glazed in the aftershocks of his pleasure. Methos had been watching his face and was caught. Their eyes met. Duncan never stopped his slow stroking, and his grip was rough, slippery, perfect. Unable to look away and breathless in the face of it, Methos froze against him at last; raw and open and excruciatingly exposed, he came so hard he felt like he spilled most of himself all over Duncan's hands.

Duncan kissed him again, open-mouthed and lush on the way down, and of all the things Methos hadn't expected, most of all it was for Duncan to want to kiss him like that, like he just wanted Methos's mouth against his, sharing the same breath.

"Do me a favor?" Methos said when he could think again, their breathing still ragged in the aftermath.

Duncan had shifted onto his back, his eyes closed, but one arm still held onto Methos, strong fingers circling and releasing knots of tension along his shoulders. "Name it."

Methos spread his fingers against Duncan's slick belly, his muscles twitching with the waves of euphoria. "If this is a dream, don't wake me."

He felt Duncan's huff of laughter, as much energy as he could manage. "I hear you," he said, his voice a rough murmur in the dark. It was the last thing Methos knew for some time.


	22. Chapter 22

**_3:46 a.m._ **

Duncan passed from a dreamless sleep into full awareness between one breath and the next. Shadows cloaked them, alleviated only by faint moonlight through the blinds; Methos was a heavy weight on his arm, his breathing soft and even, the spiky brush of his hair tickling against sensitive skin. Duncan lay still and listened, too alert too quickly.

The house was quiet, but something had woken him, some small sound, maybe, or scent, warning him almost imperceptibly of danger nearby. Methos didn't stir, dead to the world, and Duncan wondered if maybe he'd been dreaming again. Still, the feeling refused to dissipate.

He shifted Methos off him and sat up. Methos did wake then, with a faint sound of discontent. "What is it?" he murmured.

Duncan laid a finger across Methos's lips. Methos's eyes opened wider as he came instantly alert. His arm snaked over the right side of the bed, and he sat up, broadsword in hand.

Duncan swung his feet soundlessly to the floor and rose, reaching for his jeans and pulling them on. He met Methos's eyes in the near-darkness and made a gun with his finger and thumb, a silent inquiry. Methos nodded once and handed him the sword, quickly pulling on his own jeans and retrieving a compact pistol from the night stand. He clicked the safety off.

On silent feet, Methos crossed the room and paused on one side of the doorway, listening. Duncan mirrored him opposite, reaching out with his own senses. He heard nothing, but something tingled at the edges of awareness. He met Methos's eyes once more and cast a glance down the stairs. They moved, Methos half a step ahead, out onto the landing.

Downstairs and into the hall. The front door was firmly closed, but they hadn't turned the alarm on, their minds on other things. Short hairs prickling, Duncan pressed himself close to the wall at Methos's side, blade held low so it wouldn't catch the light. He gathered himself; he could feel Methos doing the same beside him, taking a deep breath, letting it out. As one, they moved.

The muzzle of a gun materialized out of the dark, pointing right at him; without thought, Duncan brought the sword up and knocked the gun aside. It went off with a muffled pop, a tranq dart burying itself harmlessly in the door molding. Duncan stepped inside the weapon and jerked a quick blow with the hilt into the intruder's ribs. Their attacker grunted in pain, falling back, straight into Methos's waiting arms. The man was strong and quick, and tried to aim a sharp kick at Duncan's knee, but Methos had hold of the man's wrist and twisted hard. He wrenched the gun up and put his own pistol to the man's head.

"Give me a reason," he hissed, his eyes gleaming in the shadows.

The man went instantly still, like a dog who knows itself outmatched. "Easy, okay? We can talk about this."

Methos dug into the vulnerable bundle of nerves at the base of the man's hand, forcing him to loosen his hold on the tranq gun; Duncan took it away from him, sparing it a glance before he tossed it away, onto the couch. He met Methos's eyes briefly, a quick exchange, and Methos hauled back on their captive, dragging him into the spill of faint light from the front windows, forcing him down into the wing chair. The artificial arm threw the man's balance off, and he stumbled; Methos backed off a foot or so, but kept the gun trained on their guest. Krycek, Methos had called him. Now that Duncan could see the man's face, the bruising was apparent: a fading technicolor spectrum of half-healed damage from Methos's fists three days before. It gave Duncan some satisfaction—perhaps more than it should have.

"Search him," Methos said.

Duncan brought the sword up, allowing barely a centimeter between the man's throat and the blade. With his free hand, he searched the pockets of the leather jacket, producing a switchblade, a semi-automatic complete with silencer, and a capped syringe filled with clear fluid. Duncan's hackles rose, and he pressed the broadsword's honed edge close to the man's jugular. A thin line of blood appeared, and he saw the green eyes widen with fear.

"I wasn't going to hurt you," Krycek said quickly. "I just wanted to talk."

"Is that right?" Duncan said. "And why would we talk to you?" Realization dawned as soon as he said it, and he held up the syringe. "Or is that what this was for? What is it? Amytal? Sodium Pentathol?" Krycek said nothing. Duncan exchanged a look with Methos. He handed the sword over, uncapped the syringe, grabbed hold of Krycek's jaw and forced his head back, pressing the tip of the needle to his neck.

"Wait!" Krycek protested.

"What's the big deal?" Duncan said. "You wanted to talk, let's talk." He gripped the man's jaw tighter. "Your choice. The needle, or we finish this right here." At last, Krycek nodded grimly, and Duncan slid the syringe home.

"Check the perimeter," Methos said, his voice tight. Duncan glanced at him, then at the pistol Methos held pressed tight to Krycek's head. Methos was pale, death written in his face, a bleak certainty that made Duncan look away. It promised a very short future for their captive if it turned out he'd been lying.

Duncan reclaimed the sword and took up Krycek's gun. He moved swiftly to recon the street out front, sticking to the shadows beside the windows. He saw nothing outside, no movement, no van. A plain dark sedan was parked across the street, but he could see the interior clearly in the glow of the street lamp, and the car was empty.

Duncan padded on the balls of his feet toward the back of the house. The back door was still locked. He could see most of the back garden from the kitchen window, and nothing moved back there, either. The gate was closed. Duncan held himself still, listening, reaching out with every sense he had. Nothing.

He set the alarm and came back. "Looks clear," he said to Methos, who hadn't moved. They exchanged a silent, weighing look, then examined their captive. "Should've kicked in by now," Duncan said. Whatever barbiturate had been in the syringe was no guarantee Krycek would tell the truth; there was no such thing as a truth serum, and Krycek had probably been trained against interrogation. But it might lower his inhibitions and make him more talkative.

"Talk fast," Methos said to Krycek, his voice cold.

"What do you want me to say?"

Duncan brought the sword back to its resting place against the man's neck, knowing from experience that in this day and age, a sword could be more intimidating than a gun. "Why don't you start by telling us what you wanted to talk about?"

Krycek met his look without backing down; maybe he did have some guts after all. The feeling of déjà vu, of recognition, hit Duncan hard. Methos hadn't been kidding about the resemblance, but Duncan saw now that it stopped at the eyes. Cory was many things, but he'd never been a killer.

"What you are," Krycek said at last. "Who made you. What the hell that freak light show was all about." He paused, as if calculating how much of the truth would be enough. "What it means for all of us." After a moment, his lips curled up, arrogance pushing aside some of the fear. "You don't remember me, do you?"

Remember him? Duncan frowned. And then it clicked. "It was you. That night in the parking garage—it was you." Though his memories had returned, that night and what had come after was still a jumble of images, of rage, pain, and fear, overlaid by blood and fire. "Did you kill McCormick?"

Krycek didn't blink. "Which time?"

Duncan's eyes flicked to Methos's and saw the deep fury he held tightly in check. For that as much as anything, Duncan slid the blade along Krycek's throat, raising another thin line of blood. It wiped all trace of amusement off the man's face as he'd intended. "This isn't a game, smart ass. Did you kill him?"

"I was there for you, not him. It's your fault he got in the way. He wasn't even supposed to be there."

 _...your fault he got in the way..._

The words brought a fresh wave of memory, vivid and visceral, for a moment more real than the present. The two of them sitting in his car, McCormick's laid-back drawl, warning him— _this goes deeper than either of us guessed_ —and then the sound of a car approaching, the two of them meeting one another's eyes. _Company,_ McCormick had said, his voice low.

Between one breath and the next, Duncan remembered all of it, the whole nightmarish sequence of what had come after. It left him shaken, sickened to the heart.

The man who'd done it watched him remember, showing no real hint of remorse.

"Mac?" Methos said, voice tight.

"Yeah," Duncan said, getting a grip on it. "You killed a good man," he growled, feeling the twitch of his own barely controlled violence in his hands, his gut.

"Not the first time," Krycek replied huskily, and there was more honesty in it than anything else he'd said. "But it wasn't supposed to happen like that. You have to believe me." And it still wasn't remorse, not quite, but maybe something close to regret.

Duncan looked hard at him, measuring him; Krycek must have read the look and seen his chance. "I can be useful to you," he said, baring his throat to the blade as if to emphasize how cooperative he could be. "I can help you."

The total absence of anything resembling self-respect repelled Duncan, but against his will, he felt a certain pity, even empathy. The people who'd ordered Duncan's capture had made this man what he was, in every sense.

"I know what you're thinking," Krycek said, watching him, his eyes flicking to the side for an instant toward the gun Methos held trained at his head. "You're thinking you don't need any help I could give you. But you will, trust me. Mulder has, more than once, even if he hates to admit it. You're in the middle of a war, whether you like it or not. And like it or not, we're on the same side."

Duncan felt his lips curl in a snarl. "And we're supposed to take your word for it?"

"My former employers and I had a parting of the ways. I came here tonight for information—believe me, it's in my best interests to keep you and the others like you under the radar, out of their hands. If I'd known what you were that night, I never would have turned you over to them."

Experience warned Duncan not to trust him, but the circumstantial evidence supported Krycek's claims: the tranq gun, the syringe. Instinct told him it fit. He weighed the fact that Krycek had come alone with no radio or headset. And Mulder, too, had spoken of a war.

He met Methos's eyes again, seeing his friend's narrow with much the same look of consideration. This man was dangerous in the extreme, and if he became Immortal, he'd be more dangerous still. But they didn't exactly have a lot of choices. Duncan was under no illusions about what would happen if they called the police and had the man arrested. A whole lot of nothing, that's what. They could shoot him, but then one of them would have to take his head. And no matter how much they might want him erased, the man was a wild card, maybe one of the few in the deck. If he was telling the truth, he knew far more even than Mulder, and that could be a valuable asset.

Duncan weighed what he saw in Methos's face, seeing his conflicting impulses reflected there.

"We could tape him up and torture him for a while," Methos said easily, as if suggesting they all go out for brunch in the morning. "See if he knows anything before we kill him."

"Worth a shot," Duncan agreed in the same tone.

"Look, guys—" Krycek's voice rose a half note, his eyes darting to the side again. "Let me go, and I'll make it up to you, I swear. I'll tell you who sent me after you that night. Names, locations. You name it."

"What, no torture first?" said Methos, eyebrows rising. "Where's the fun in that?"

"I told you, I'm done playing their game. It's nothing to me if you guys want to go after them."

Duncan met Methos's eyes over Krycek's head. "What do you think?"

Methos considered for a moment, then shrugged. "Works for me." He grabbed a note pad and a pen off the side table and dropped them into Krycek's lap, then brought the muzzle of his pistol up behind Krycek's ear like an afterthought. "Just keep in mind, I've got this finger spasm thing that happens whenever I start to think somebody's messing with me."

Animosity flickered in Krycek's expression, but he suppressed it, bent his head, and started to write. He wrote down three names, a city and a country under each. When he was finished, Methos took the pad from him and glanced it over. At last, he nodded.

Duncan knew better than to think three names even began to cover it. Krycek was almost certainly playing his own game, and wouldn't shrink from using them. But Methos seemed satisfied by what he'd offered, and Duncan was, he had to admit, vastly relieved that he and Methos were on the same page for once. As much as a part of him would have liked to take the price of McCormick's life out of this man's skin, he really didn't have the stomach for torturing anybody at the moment, and even less for an execution-style killing.

"All right, you can go," Duncan grated. He drew the blade along Krycek's collarbone, watching it slice through the black cotton T-shirt, deliberately marking the skin. He let the point come to rest above the man's heart, and put a growl of entirely sincere menace into his voice. "But you so much as think about pulling anything like this again with any of my friends, I will come for you, and yours will not be an easy death. You hear me?"

Krycek's lips drew against his teeth at the sting, but he didn't flinch. "Loud and clear."

Duncan let the sword fall and hauled Krycek up, balancing him as the other man found his feet. Krycek's eyes fell on the 9mm Duncan had tucked in his jeans, his expression hopeful. "Keep dreaming," Duncan said in disgust. He pushed Krycek toward the front door, disabling the alarm. "And I wouldn't waste any time if I were you. My friend here's not exactly your biggest fan."

Krycek's survival instincts were obviously good. He didn't wait for them to change their minds, just slipped out the door and melted away into the night.

They heard his car start, heard it leave in a hurry. Methos and Duncan stood in the front hall for a long moment. At last, Methos put the safety back on his gun and stuck it in the back of his jeans, then locked the door and turned the alarm back on. Thoughtful, he said, "I don't know about you, but I'm starting to think maybe it's past time to put out a 'For Sale' sign on this place."

Duncan gave a small, breathless laugh. "Tell me about it." The aftermath of adrenaline left him a little shaky, and all he really wanted to do was sleep for a week, but when Methos went back into the living room, he followed. He laid the broadsword down on the table, slipping Krycek's pistol from his waistband and doing the same. Methos's Glock joined it.

"You think he was telling the truth?" Methos said, flopping down onto the couch.

"About which part?" Duncan sat down heavily next to him.

"Any of it."

Duncan weighed that. "Strangely enough? Yeah, I believe him."

Methos let out a breath, and rubbed his eyes. "Strangely enough, I agree."

Duncan let his eyebrows rise in mock disbelief. "How often does that happen?"

Methos made a sound of amusement. "Probably more often than you'd expect."

"Or than either of us would admit." Duncan let his own smile surface.

"That, too."

They sat in the quiet of the living room, naked to the waist, barefoot, an arsenal on the table between them and the smell of sex still faint on their skin. _And how often does_ that _happen?_ Duncan thought, too much feeling tight within him. _Try never._

"Mac, how much do you remember about that night? About McCormick?"

Duncan swallowed back whatever he'd been about to say. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. It was still coming back to him in flashes, little details jolting him and slipping into place.

"I called him on Friday, I think. It was after Joe ended up in the hospital, and I'd found some of the surveillance gear at my place. I knew it was top of the line, and I didn't know anyone in New York to call. I needed someone to tell me what kind of people I was dealing with. He sent me to a place in Queens, to this guy he'd worked with before."

"Mike Reilly," Methos said. "Didn't seem like a bad guy. I hope he's still around."

Duncan grimaced. He hadn't thought about that. "Yeah, so do I. Anyway, I didn't go home on Friday night or all day Saturday. McCormick said he'd look and see what he could find out, and that I should hang tight until then. He left me a message on Sunday morning, and we arranged to meet that night. I was going to try to draw them away from Joe, make it look like I was running, but leave a trail they could follow. McCormick was going to do what he could to help."

Methos was watching him, his expression carefully neutral. "Very good citizen of him."

Duncan felt the sting of it, multi-layered. _If you'd called one of us from New York, trusted us—_ "Yeah," he said roughly. "He really was a good man. We didn't know each other well, but I trusted him. We owed each other a few favors. I think we'd sort of lost track of who owed who at the moment, to tell you the truth."

"I'm sorry, Mac," Methos said quietly.

Duncan rubbed his hands over his face. "They followed us, of course. I thought I'd done a good job of covering my tracks, but I still didn't really know what I was up against. There were six of them, and they were too heavily armed, wearing body armor. We fought. They shot Matthew in the head."

He got up, pacing, unable to sit still and tell the rest of it. "They had me on the ground. Krycek was giving the orders. I remember Matthew's face when he saw him, right before they shot him. We both thought— Well, I don't know what we thought. It all happened too fast. But he looked like Cory, and we could feel him, you know? Matthew went down because of it. I think they still would have had us—we didn't really have a chance. But that was the thing that got him."

"Why would they take you, though, and not McCormick?" Methos asked. "That's one thing I could never figure out. Why only take one of you, when they could have had two test subjects? Was it just to throw us off? Make us think you were dead so we wouldn't look for you?"

"That was part of it. But they didn't know he was one of us. And before that night, I don't think they knew how to kill us. It wasn't supposed to happen." He scrubbed his hands through his hair, wishing he could go back and do everything differently. "He revived about a minute after they shot him. They were holding me down, trying to inject me with something. Matthew came to. I heard him gasp and I threw off the two guys who were on me. Matthew jumped Krycek before he knew what hit him, but Krycek's men took him down, shoved him face down into the concrete." He stopped pacing, seeing it as if it were happening all over again. "Krycek pulled out this spring-loaded gimlet, like an ice pick. He put his knee in the middle of Matthew's back and stabbed him in the back of the head."

Duncan felt sick, cold with the memory. He could feel Methos watching him, but Methos kept still, silent, letting him remember. "I've never seen anything like it. It must have gone most of the way through his brain." Duncan's voice caught. "His Quickening went haywire."

"Mac."

Duncan shook his head once, sharp. He needed to tell someone, to remember all of it. McCormick deserved that much. "It hit me, knocked me down. It didn't feel like a regular Quickening. I think my heart stopped, because I blacked out for a few seconds. Then I was down on my knees, and I saw his eyes. He was still alive. He knew what was happening. I could feel his life-force arcing between us, like some kind of feedback loop, and it kept getting worse the longer it went on. They couldn't touch us. I could feel it trying to ground itself in me, but instead I think I was amplifying it, somehow. And then I realized it was starting to—" Duncan swallowed hard. "I could smell his skin burning. Then the first car exploded." Remembering, Duncan felt his stomach turn over, gooseflesh rising on his bare skin. He couldn't look at Methos, knowing he'd see his own horror reflected there. "He said my name. I saw him try to grab the gimlet, try to pull it out. Before he could, Krycek picked up my sword and cut off his head."

He fell silent for a long moment, leaning one hand on the edge of the door. Eyes closed, he remembered taking the Quickening, remembered how it had felt like such an intense relief after the torment of what had gone before. How he had been grateful for those long minutes, all too glad to let the lightning take him and heedless of the conflagration building around him, grateful for the arc of the katana that had ended that small eternity of _wrongness_ he'd felt as McCormick's life-energy arced livid and angry between them.

A hand touched him, made him flinch. Methos, standing close. His hand closed on the back of Duncan's neck, startling in its sudden intimacy. Duncan drew a shaky breath, realizing only as he did it that he'd let too much time pass without one.

He straightened away from the wall, turning at last. "I'm okay," he said roughly, not sure how convincing it was. Methos let his hand fall away, but stayed close. "I just—" He met Methos's eyes at last, breath catching at the concern and empathy written there. "No man should have to die like that."

"No," Methos agreed.

Duncan nodded, swallowing. He moved a little distance away, finding it hard to think with Methos so close. "I don't know what would have happened if Krycek hadn't done what he did, if McCormick would have survived. Have you ever seen anything like that before?"

Methos shook his head. "Never. But you know as well as I do, the Watcher records are far from perfect."

Duncan grimaced. "I guess it's not exactly the kind of thing that happens every day."

"Thank heaven for that." Methos looked pale, too, and about as tired as Duncan felt. "I did see the weapon you're talking about. He had it on him in Queens—I took it from him."

Duncan looked up, a chill touching him as the image of Methos with that thing sticking out of him, suffering like McCormick had suffered, imprinted itself on his mind's eye. "He tried to use it on you," he said without thought, feeling like the air had been knocked out of him. He wished they hadn't let Krycek go, because torturing him was suddenly sounding a lot better.

But Methos shook his head. "He didn't get the chance. But I guess we can say for sure these guys know how to kill an Immortal now, even if they didn't before."

Duncan drew a deep breath. "I think it's safe to say so, yes."

They looked at each other, a distance of three feet or so separating them. Without warning, the urge to run seized Duncan, fierce and overwhelming. The thought of the danger he'd put Methos in made him feel dizzy, sick to his stomach, a kind of numb dread sinking through him. _I can't lose him,_ he thought with a queasy, painful clarity. _I can't watch him die. Not him, too._

"Methos," he said helplessly, unable to breathe in the face of it.

"Don't," Methos said, and moved fast until there was no distance between them at all. Duncan's arms came up without thought and seized him close; Methos held on just as tight. "Don't look at me like that. I'm right here, Mac. Right here. And so are you, and right now that's all that matters, you hear me?"

His voice was rough but calm, steady against Duncan's ear, and Duncan closed his eyes, and breathed, and held on.

* * *

Methos had been waiting for it, and he wasn't surprised when it came. Duncan had been running on fumes for days, and he'd dealt with enough emotional trauma tonight to take down a lesser man as surely as a gut shot. He'd seen Duncan pull himself up from rock bottom too many times to count, but this time it was exhaustion and cumulative stress, and Methos was only too glad to be the one to catch him.

"You need to let it go," he said, when he felt the frantic racing of Duncan's heart slow at last to something like normal. "Come upstairs with me and let it go for right now. Okay?"

Duncan nodded and let him go. His eyes were red, though whether from fatigue or emotion, Methos didn't know. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he let Methos usher him upstairs, let him help him out of his jeans and pull him down onto the bed, where Methos wrapped himself around all the parts of Duncan he could reach and pressed against him, knowing the pure animal comfort of it would reach him better than anything else could.

And if it was comfort he took for himself, too, if it eased some deep, long-buried pressure in his chest to wrap Duncan up in his arms and breathe the scent of him, to feel him let go and give over his trust with full knowledge and slip into a deep, exhausted sleep, at least he didn't have to admit it to anybody, because there was no one else to know.

* * *

When Duncan drifted up through luxuriously sticky layers of deep sleep, the afternoon sun was slanting into the room, and he felt more like himself than he had in so long he couldn't remember. The smell of coffee and bacon prompted a noisy stomach growl, as though he hadn't eaten in a week; he rolled over and stretched in the rumpled sheets, feeling his nakedness in the sunlight like an obscene indulgence he was only too glad to enjoy. All he needed to feel truly decadent would have been Methos naked in the bed with him.

His sex stirred at that, and he chuckled softly at himself, trying to remember the last time he'd been with anyone before last night. Amanda, in Paris—and that was four months ago. Apparently, his stomach wasn't the only part of him feeling neglected.

He took an obscenely long shower, and diverted himself with thoughts of what he might persuade Methos to do with what remained of the afternoon. He hadn't forgotten the fear. But it felt quieter now, a thread instead of a rope choking him, a trickle instead of a river, and he was able to put it aside to think about later, some time when he could sit somewhere quiet and deal with it. Right now he was hungry, and he missed Methos.

He came down the stairs and found Methos not at the computer, as he'd expected, but fast asleep on the couch with a book open on his chest. A mostly empty coffee cup sat on the table beside him. One long, bare foot was draped over the arm of the couch and his hair was sticking up, and in spite of his earlier train of thought, Duncan was caught off guard by the quiet jolt of desire he felt, the hunger to crawl over him and slide his hands up under the worn rock band T-shirt Methos wore, to feel those long, muscular thighs wrapping around his waist. It took his breath a little. It was the way he used to react to Tessa, that same sudden desire that would take him at odd moments, light him up and make him ache to touch.

It was the vulnerability in his face, Duncan thought. That bow-shaped mouth, and the long eyelashes... It brushed up against something unspoken inside Duncan, made him want things with Methos that he hadn't let himself want in such a long time. He felt like he was holding himself in with an effort of will, like if he let himself believe in what he was feeling, some measure of which Methos plainly felt in return, he'd have to wake up and leave this pleasant, unreal dream. He'd been alone so long, had worked so hard at denying himself the people closest to him, it felt like too much to hope for.

For almost a minute he stood there, looking. Maybe eventually they'd get to the point where he'd feel comfortable crossing those boundaries, but this was still Methos, prickly and ancient and unpredictable. One had to take care.

He sighed at last, letting him sleep, and went to see about food.

Oatmeal, strawberries, and a touch of cream won out over anything more elaborate, though he did sneak a piece of the leftover bacon. Comfort food, he thought, smiling a little to himself. Richie was the only other person he’d known in the past decade or two who'd liked oatmeal for breakfast.

He was standing at the kitchen window with a cup of coffee, remembering, when Methos came in, leaned against the doorjamb.

"Hey."

Duncan looked over and felt a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. Methos's hair was still sticking up. "Hey, yourself."

"You okay?"

Duncan turned to lean his hips against the sink. "Better. Definitely been worse. You?"

"I'm good."

Duncan nodded and sipped his coffee, glad to have something to do with his hands. "So, what now?" he asked at last. "Time to take Amanda's advice, go for a change of scenery?"

"Wouldn't be a terrible idea," Methos admitted.

"Don't worry, I won't tell her you said that."

Methos grinned, the grin Duncan thought of as more Cheshire Cat than sphinx. "It's all true, what they say about you."

Duncan choked a laugh, and turned to put his cup in the sink. "God, I hope not."

When he turned back, Methos's eyes were bright, amused, his whole body relaxed as he leaned in the door. But a careful stillness came into his manner, and his lashes veiled his eyes. "I was thinking," he said after a moment. "I've got a place in London. Nice big garden out back. The place is huge, full of antiques." He hesitated, something unreadable flickering in his expression. "You'd love it."

Duncan blinked. "Yeah?" It sounded a little thick.

Methos pushed himself away from the door then and closed the distance between them, intent. "Come with me, Mac. It'll be close to Paris—more so than here, anyway. We can stay there a while."

Duncan had to ask, the words tight in his throat. "As friends? Or something more?"

Faint color rose in Methos's face. "I won't pretend I'd be sorry if it was more. But friends is enough, if that's what you want. More than enough." His voice was rough, too, and it curled low and intimate somewhere inside Duncan the way it always had.

When had he first thought about it? Duncan wondered. Had it been that first night under the bridge, when Methos had let Duncan take him home, taken his offer of a hot shower and warm clothes and good whisky? Or had it been later, in Seacouver, the two of them circling each other like wary dogs, testing, barely looking at each other straight on?

Thinking of those early days, Duncan said huskily, "I wondered, now and then, back when we first met. And then I'd think, maybe I'd imagined it. Maybe it was all in my head, the way you looked at me sometimes."

Methos smiled a little. "I wondered if maybe you knew. After a while, I thought you must. And then I thought, that's it, then. It's never gonna happen."

"It's been a long time since I—" A warm flush crept up Duncan's neck. "There haven't been many men." None that he'd felt like this about, that much was sure.

"I'm flattered, then." The smile didn't falter, but something shuttered itself carefully away in Methos's gaze. "It's okay, Mac, really. Your friendship is what's important to me. I meant that."

"No, that's not what I meant." At last Duncan moved, pacing away a few steps, then back. He gave a painful laugh, running a hand through his hair. "I'd like it to be more. It's just, I'm afraid I'm not going to be very good at it." He dared a glance at Methos, in time to see the light come back into his eyes.

"Well, judging from past performance, I'd say you have nothing to worry about."

"You know that's not what I'm talking about."

"So, we'll take it easy. Play it by ear." At Duncan's dubious look, he stopped. "What?"

Duncan shook his head, wry. "You said it yourself. Whatever this is between us, easy it's never been."

Methos moved nearer. "Maybe we need to practice more." A hint of that rough note came back into his voice and Duncan felt it like heat stirring in his belly.

The afternoon sun, warm against his back, turned Methos's eyes to infinite facets of gold and brown and green. Duncan's eyes moved over his face, drinking in the nuances of expression, the barely veiled hunger and hope.

Even to his own ears, Duncan's voice sounded a little breathless when he said, "I'd like that."

Methos kissed him then, slow and tender, asking. Duncan let the tip of his tongue touch Methos's upper lip, tentative, and he felt Methos draw a sharp breath in through his nose. Duncan's heart started to skip, to beat faster. Without meaning to, he leaned in, felt Methos touch his face, asking for more. Duncan couldn't help the way he responded to it, to the warm, soft pressure of Methos's mouth, couldn't help the shiver that ran through him when their lips parted and Methos's tongue touched his. They kissed deeply, Methos's grip on his arms holding him away, pulling him closer at the same time. _I want him,_ Duncan thought without warning, and it slid in effortlessly, sank in up to the hilt. _Not only to touch him but to lie with him, to know him._

"Methos—" Duncan said roughly, breaking free of the kiss. He stopped at Methos's name, knowing what he wanted but not how to say it, how to ask for something they could never go back from.

"Shh," Methos told him, eyes closed, rubbing his head against the side of Duncan's face. "Don't say anything." His fingers slid into Duncan's hair and he held Duncan still, pressing their bodies close. Duncan's arms came up around him. His hands spread against Methos's bare skin under his T-shirt. "Mac," Methos said, eyes shut tight, shuddering a little. "Duncan. I want to—" He drew a deep breath, and leaned back, searching Duncan's face. "I want to feel you. Can we—?"

"Yes," Duncan said, without any hesitation. "Yes."


	23. Epilogue

**_London  
Two months later_ **

**__**There were few places Methos would rather be on a fine June afternoon than working in his garden. It was a balmy twenty-four degrees celsius, barely a hint of humidity in the air; the jasmine was over and the lavender hadn't yet begun to flower, but the rose bushes saturated the air with their lush, opulent perfume, heady and sweet. He trimmed back the few faded blooms, then set to work pruning the evergreens and hedges.

It was exactly the kind of work he needed to be doing on this particular day—absorbing and physical, not demanding too much in the way of brain power. He couldn't have sat inside today any more than he had yesterday, and his concentration for anything remotely resembling research was shot to hell. Joe was getting impatient for an update, and he still owed Mulder an email, but today he was much better suited for mulching and fertilizing, for trimming and netting against the birds.

He finished with the hedges and put the pruning shears away, then went into the small greenhouse for the last of the summer annuals, waiting in their small plastic pots. It probably wouldn't be today, he told himself for at least the tenth time that day. It might not even be this week. Duncan hadn't called in a fortnight, and Amanda had said last night that she hadn't heard from him either. Almost a month since Duncan and Wolfe had dropped off the map, and "as long as it takes" was about as vague as you could get, especially when you were talking about training a new Immortal. Even more so when the Immortal in question was the problematic Wolfe, who had agreed to go on this retreat with Mac under what could only be called duress.

The radio silence was part of the deal, and Methos knew that. It was best, given the various intrigues they found themselves embroiled in now, that they keep a low profile. Besides, Wolfe would learn far better without distractions, and Amanda was about as big a distraction as you could get.

Methos knew all that. But the sad truth was, he hadn't been coping with the situation much better than Amanda. When he and Duncan had left the States two months ago, Methos on a plane and Duncan taking more indirect transportation, it was only supposed to be a couple of weeks. Duncan should have been in London by the middle of May at the latest.

Then Wolfe had to go and get himself killed, and Duncan had gone instead to a monastery in Spain to meet up with him, an arrangement made primarily through Amanda's sheer stubbornness. She'd haunted Wolfe's steps, refused to let him go off on his own untrained and unarmed, and wouldn't let him alone until he agreed. Methos didn't know all the details, but from what Amanda had admitted, it hadn't been pretty. Methos had a feeling it was going to be a long time before Wolfe wanted anything to do with her.

He felt sorry for the little minx, he really did. But what should have been two weeks had turned into two months, and he was starting to get... no, he wouldn't say worried. Bored, that was it. Things were always a little too quiet when Mac wasn't around. And maybe, once upon a time, Methos had thought he wanted it that way, but enough was enough.

Carrying the boxes of flowers out to the beds he'd prepared, he turned his scattered thoughts away from wild speculation with effort. Duncan was still in Seville with Wolfe, and would be until he felt confident the guy could defend himself. He would call when he could. There was no point in thinking about the other possibilities, because that way lay a dark mood Methos could really do without.

Funny, Methos thought, kneeling in the soft dirt and laying the new plants in their beds, how normal life could still seem on a day-to-day basis when your perceptions of the world had undergone a radical, fundamental paradigm shift for the first time in at least two thousand years. He supposed it would be harder for mortals, who lived barely long enough to form any kind of worldview, let alone to have it altered radically on them. Extraterrestrials, invasion scenarios, shadow conspiracies—nearly everything on the disk Mulder had given them defied credulity, though the evidence added up to an inescapable picture that none of them could afford to deny.

It was powerful stuff, all right, but maybe it was easier to take when you'd lived a good part of your life believing the Earth was born from the womb of a mother goddess, and you could still remember a time when carrying your dead queen into her tomb and drugging yourself into unconsciousness so you could be bricked up and entombed alive with her seemed like a reasonable way to get into heaven.

Methos finished pressing the earth down around the last of the plants and sat back on his heels, brushing dirt off his hands. It was under his nails, loamy and dark, and he could feel his back getting sticky from the warm sun. He surveyed his handiwork; satisfied, he got up and took the boxes to the rubbish bin.

That done, he went to unwind the hose around the side, looking forward to a turn under the cool water before he gave the flowers a drink—and it was then that he felt the buzz, a familiar wash of shivers that started at the scalp and ran down under the skin, heralding company.

It quietly confirmed something he hadn't been sure about until that moment. But now he was sure, because he felt the buzz and knew it was Duncan, knew with a certainty that ran as deep as knowing the sky was blue, that water was wet—and that had never happened before, not even with Kronos. Half-forgotten moments of connection he'd dismissed as imagination stirred, and for a moment he spared thought to wonder what it meant.

But even if it should have troubled him, he couldn't really bring himself to care because what it meant right now was that Duncan was here, safe and alive. Safe and alive and not halfway around the world, running from what had happened between them in DC, from the things they'd said and the way they'd touched one another. Safe and alive and home.

"It's me," Duncan called over the gate. A white handkerchief waved back and forth, signaling surrender. "Don't shoot."

For one long second, Methos closed his eyes. His heart felt like it weighed nothing, a sudden, dizzying relief, and for that second, he let himself feel it. Then he shook it off, laughing, and went to open the gate.

"Mac!" The gate swung inward and Duncan came through and they were hugging without hesitation, Duncan warm and fit and real in his arms. Methos could feel the muscle of a month's worth of heavy training, and his heart thrilled to it, loving his strength and the heavy _presence_ of him. His skin was dark from the sun and he smelled like patchouli. Methos took a deep whiff. "What have you been rolling around in?"

Duncan pulled back and made a face, hitching his duffle higher on his shoulder. "Something in the cab, I think. Sorry, I need a bath. Feel like I've been traveling for days." He took in Methos's dirt-streaked skin and old, worn clothes. "What about you? Making mud pies?"

"Yes, exactly, I'm making mud pies," Methos said, ushering him toward the back. "Come see." He took Duncan's bag and left it on the steps, then led him through the arbor with its luxuriant drape of grapevines. They followed the path by the hedges, around the new bed he'd just finished. "I just planted these—they need water. I still have to go through the iris beds. This is where the gladiolus will go. Roses, of course, you have to have roses." They stopped under the almond tree, and Methos looked the garden over, trying to see it as Duncan would see it. "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful," Duncan said, but he wasn't looking at the garden.

Methos felt his face warm, wondering if he had a big smear of dirt across his forehead or something, the way Duncan was looking at him, that smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What?" Methos said irritably.

"I've missed you," Duncan said.

Nonplused, Methos retorted, "They do have phones in Spain, I hear." He meant it to come out sounding less acerbic than it did.

Duncan nodded, unfazed. "Yeah. I know." He stopped for a second, and Methos was about to make some crack about the wonders of modern technology when Duncan drew a deep breath and went on. "I have some things I need to say, though, and I didn't want to say them over the phone."

Methos didn't know what to call the feeling that sank through him in that moment. It felt like something cold and liquid that started in his chest and pooled in his belly, and the warm late afternoon breeze suddenly seemed chilly. It took an effort to hold still, to keep all emotion out of his face and not look away. "Okay, I'm listening."

Duncan studied his eyes for a moment, looking for what, Methos wasn't sure. He reached out unexpectedly and touched Methos's neck, thumb tracing once over the vein there, and Methos was sure Duncan could feel the racing of his pulse. Methos willed himself not to betray what it did to him, and Duncan let his hand fall away.

"I've been thinking about this a lot since we saw each other last," he said roughly. "Thinking about everything that's happened. Everything you said."

Methos nodded, once, twice. He opened his mouth, and what came out was, "Look, if this is your way of saying you've had second thoughts—" _it's okay,_ he willed himself to finish that sentence. _It's fine._ Of course it was.

But Duncan made a sound of exasperation. "Will you shut up a minute? I'm trying to say this right, and I'm—" He broke off. Feeling his distress, Methos had to resist the urge to touch him. When had that happened, anyway? When had they crossed the last lines that made it seem so natural to touch each other without thinking?

Duncan paced a little, eyes on the ground, like he did when words were hard for him. "When Tessa died," he said at last, "I promised myself I would never love anyone like that again. And then, before I knew it, there you were. You made me laugh, like she did. You made me think about the choices I made like she did. You refused to put up with my crap, too, like she did. I couldn't stop thinking about you." He stopped and looked up. "More than that. When I was in that place, that room where they held me, you were the only thing that kept me sane. Sometimes I didn't even know who I was, only that I wanted to die. But then it was like I could hear you. Your voice telling me to hold on, not to give up. I would shut my eyes and listen for all I was worth, and it kept me together when nothing else could."

Methos couldn't help remembering how he'd felt the same, how he'd heard Duncan's voice in his head at the darkest moments of their search. "Duncan—"

"Wait, I need to tell you this. I've needed to tell you for weeks, and if you don't let me get it out, I'll—" He swallowed hard. "Methos, I'm scared to death, here. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't, and I can't promise I'll always make the right decision when it comes to taking risks. The thought of losing somebody else like that scares the hell out of me. I only know that I haven't stopped thinking about you. About what it was like to be with you. About how much I want to be with you like that again."

Methos felt a jolt of understanding flush his whole body without warning, his breath coming short. He fought it without much success, so relieved he wanted to sit down right there on the grass and laugh hysterically for a while. And maybe slug Duncan one, for putting him through the last two minutes of torment.

Unable to stand still under it, he moved, and Duncan fell into step with him again, the two of them drifting slowly along the path. For long seconds Methos couldn't even process the second part of what Duncan was trying to tell him, so strong was the rush of emotion when he finally let himself really hear what Duncan was saying. It took some effort to find words, and when he did, they were wholly inadequate.

"So what you're saying is, you're still a pain in the ass."

Duncan grinned crookedly. "Pretty much. You still mad at me for not calling?"

"Depends," Methos managed, struggling to meet him on equal footing, trying to keep it light so he wouldn't lose it any more than he already was. "If I say yes, will you try very hard to make it up to me?"

"You'd like that, would you?"

"Stupid question." And Methos turned and kissed him, long and deep and fervent, feeling it down to his knees. "Just so you know," he said at last, "I'm not living on a boat."

"I was thinking maybe you could keep me," Duncan joked, though the words sounded a little choked. "I like being kept."

Without thought, Methos pulled him into his arms. "I will," he said fervently. "Right here." And he couldn't say anything more, but it was all right, because Duncan held on to him with all his strength, his face pressed against Methos's neck, heart pounding—or was that Methos's heart? It didn't matter.

Blind panic flooded Methos in a wave, uncontrollable. Two months he'd been working at finding some kind of peace with this. Two months trying to forget what it had been like to think he might not see Duncan again. That would be nothing compared to the price he would pay if they did this. Nobody lived forever, not even Immortals. Duncan was right.

He breathed a laugh, unsteady. "Tell me I'm not crazy for even considering it."

"Methos." Duncan kissed him, his mouth sweet and firm, awakening a lazy spiral of heat inside him, strong and solid against the fear. "If you are, then I am, too. What the hell, let's go crazy together. See where it gets us. What do you say?"

Methos kissed him back until they were both breathless. "I've missed you, too."

"Have you? How much?" Duncan's voice sank into the register that made Methos's whole body vibrate with answering enthusiasm.

"Shameless, aren't you?"

"Mm, I've got a better idea. Let's go inside, and you can show me, instead."

Methos settled his hands possessively against Duncan's hips and walked him backwards toward the house. "I hope you don't have any plans for the next month or two."

"Got nothing on my calendar for at least a century."

"Then you're in luck."

Duncan sought his gaze, not letting him joke it away. "Looks like I am, at that."

Methos bit him gently at the throat, and Duncan's low chuckle made Methos think he'd been wrong about crazy all these years. Crazy was looking better all the time.


End file.
